Bubblegum and Cigarettes
by cherishiskisa
Summary: Destiel AU. Lawrence, Kansas, 1959. The Miltons are new in town, but the Winchesters have been around forever. Castiel, the Miltons' youngest son, hates his new home— until he meets a green-eyed greaser who changes everything he knows about society, life, and love. [art by kat-chup]
1. Sh-Boom (Life Could be a Dream)

_Hello, ladies and gentlemen! I present to you the Destiel '50s AU I've been working on._

_This was inspired by some art done by kat-chup on tumblr. I've been researching obsessively (I have playlists and playlists of '50s music and endless slang dictionaries everywhere; it's a problem) and I hope it's paid off._

_I'm still working on it, though; I've got a nice long plot outline and I'm excited._

_The '50s had some pretty unintelligible slang, so to help you out, I've placed a little dictionary at the end of each chapter with translations of the words y'all might not understand._

_PLEASE NOTE: I am NOT making fun of people with stutters with my Cas. At all. It is not my aim to be offensive. It's a plot device. If it hurts your feelings, I am truly, truly sorry. That was not my intention._

_Apologies that the first chapter is slow. This whole story will be pretty slow on the Destiel (the '50s were pretty homophobic, after all)._

_But I hope you enjoy it, and please review and let me know what you thought!_

* * *

_Lawrence, Kansas, 1959_

"Have a nice day, now!" Dean calls after the retreating figure of Sam, Midwestern drawl more evident in his voice than ever.

Sam just rolls his eyes and slumps into the school with a dejected expression. "As if."

Dean smiles that melancholy smile of his before glancing at the clock—upon seeing the time, he yelps and his car roars to life under him. He jets down the street and reaches the garage in record time—but still half an hour late.

A block away, a nearly identical scene is unfolding.

Except it isn't identical at all.

"You understand that I am only driving you to school this once so you know the way," Emmanuel Milton is saying.

Castiel Milton's, his youngest son's, eyes are downcast and he clutches his school bag with white-knuckled hands. "Y-yes, F-father."

"I expect you home at three-forty-five sharp."

"Y-yes, Father."

"Be sure to get good grades. Sit with the Hamiltons at lunch—very influential family."

Castiel nods. "I'll t-t-try, F-father."

"And work on that stutter of yours, hey?" Emmanuel laughs to show this is supposed to be a joke and claps his son on the back, making his narrow body shake.

Castiel doesn't think it's funny but gives a weak smile. "Alr-right, Father."

"Now go get 'em." Emmanuel all but shoves Castiel out of the car and, without any kind of goodbye, drives away.

Castiel watches him go with huge, miserable eyes, slings his bag onto his shoulder, and joins the multitude of laughing students flooding into the school.

Once he's in, he glances around and a tiny quirk of a smile tugs up at the corner of his usually frowning mouth. _Maybe this won't be so bad_, he thinks, and then a burly boy in a massive letterman jacket shoves him roughly into a row of lockers.

Castiel coughs feebly and waits until he's gone to gather his fallen books back up and smooth the creases from his cardigan.

_Or not_.

He trudges to his first-period class, keeping his head down so as not to attract any more unwanted attention.

His Algebra teacher is a small, frail, bespectacled woman clad in tweed. Half the students are already there when he walks in, laughing, gossiping, swooning over some new song, or just staring happily at each other.

Castiel is terrified by them.

He cautiously approaches the teacher and clears his throat politely. She looks up at him with already-tired eyes. "And who are you?" she asks, voice laced with false interest and a drawl.

Castiel swallows. "I'm ne-new. Ca-ca-castiel M-milton. I'm-m a jun-junior." His heart pounds in his chest and he curses his fickle tongue for betraying him.

She must think that he stutters from nerves—_oh, if only_—and her eyes soften into a pitying smile. "Oh, darling," she clucks, holding out a pudgy hand for the shaking. "I'm Ms. Winthrop. The bell's about to ring—why don't you introduce yourself to the class?"

Castiel's eyes widen in panic, but before he can formulate a cohesive "No," the bell rings and the last few students dash into the room.

"Class," Ms. Winthrop snaps. "Settle down, now. Go on, honey," she adds, giving Castiel a nudge.

Castiel closes his eyes momentarily, takes a breath, and tries. "I'm C-cas-castiel Mil-milton. I-I'm new."

He can feel his face burning bright red as whispers sweep through the room and all he wants is to die.

"Cast-yee-yail is a junior," Ms. Winthrop chimes in, and Castiel is too mortified to even correct her complete mispronunciation.

"Naw, he's a professional space cadet," a voice snickers from the middle of the room, and Castiel's jaw clenches tight as he continues to stare at the ground. "Just look at 'im!"

"Or listen to him," snidely comments another, and Castiel just nods mutely, face still searing with shame. "What a yo-yo."

"That's enough," the teacher tuts, giving Castiel a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Go sit in back by Sam and Sandy."

Castiel raises his head just enough to see where he's going and trudges over to his seat, too intimidated to make eye contact with any of the pigtailed girls who smile brilliantly at him.

"Sam is actually new, too!" Ms. Winthrop continues cheerfully. "Would you introduce yourself, Sam?"

Castiel finally sits down. Sandy giggles and smiles a dimpled smile at him.

Sam sighs, slumping lower in his seat and hiding behind his mop of hair. He is the only one in the room (aside from Castiel) who doesn't seem to fit in—all the other boys are clean-cut like Castiel with neatly parted hair, tucked-in shirts, and fancy shoes. Sam's hair is a mess, and he's wearing ragged blue jeans and beat-up sneakers. When he finally says, "'m Sam Winchester. I'm a sophomore. I'm not new," whispers of a different sort echo around him.

Castiel hears the words "greaser," "hood," and "Dean."

Sam takes all this, too, but his eyes have an edge to them that show he's more than used to it.

Castiel marvels at the level of distinction between the social classes here. Back in Boston, everyone had been utterly identical in their differences. But here…

He's heard of greasers and hoods, of course. Michael and Lucifer, the Miltons' twin glories, the eldest sons, constantly reminded him of the importance of not going into bad neighborhoods or never making friends with the rough underprivileged kids.

Castiel has never understood _why_, but has always accepted it anyway.

But Sam—floppy-haired Sam with scared, hardened eyes and a big red "A+" scrawled on his graded pop quiz—seems nice. Normal. Just because he doesn't have a neat haircut and has holes in his too-big shoes and a worn-out hand-me-down backpack doesn't mean he slits throats in back alleys the way Mike and Luc claim greasers do.

The rest of the class goes by uneventfully, though a couple of the boys sitting up front try to catch Castiel's attention by faking obnoxious stutters.

Castiel decides he hates Kansas.

The class ends, and neither Castiel nor Sam can get out of there fast enough. They exchange shy, insincere smiles as they part ways to go to second period.

The next three classes are exactly the same for Castiel, if not worse (Danielle Hamilton is in his History class, but didn't even look at him). In the back corners of the rooms in some of his classes, Castiel spots small groups of greaser girls—they wear too much makeup and hiss out curses under their breaths. They eye Castiel with interest and he feels very much like a sheep in front of wolves.

By lunch, Castiel is very seriously considering calling his father's office and telling him he's sick so he has to go home.

But he knows he's not brave enough and that he'd never be able to get the words out anyway.

So he sits along at a small corner table in the packed cafeteria, munching morosely on the lunch his mother packed him, when—

"You mind if I sit here?"

Castiel's eyes snap up, startled. It's Sam Winchester, and he looks just as sheepish as Castiel himself probably does. Not trusting himself to be able to say "No, go ahead" properly, Castiel just shakes his head and waits.

Sam's smile is grateful as he slides in across from Castiel. "Where are you from?"

Oh, golly. Small talk with a greaser.

"Bos-boston," Castiel tells him, hating the uncertainty of his tone.

Sam's eyes light up. "The East Coast!" he says reverently. "Gosh. I've never even been outside of Lawrence. But my big brother Dean has driven all across the country. Or so he says."

Castiel can't conceal his small smile as he listen to Sam extol his brother. It's endearing, and Castiel half-wishes he could talk about his siblings like that.

"Don't you have a sister?" Sam asks suddenly, and Castiel realises he'll actually have to talk now.

He nods. "S-she's a f-f-freshman. Anna."

"I think I've seen her around."

"Either th-that, or y-you've been listening to rum-rumours."

Sam smiles wryly. "Don't have anyone to hear rumours from."

"Not your b-brother?" Castiel asks, still having no idea how old this Dean character is.

Sam shakes his head. "Dean only knows the people he knows. And he hasn't gone to school in—well, a while." Sam chews nervously at his lips, and Castiel can tell this is a sore subject. He's about to change it when he feels a slight tap on his shoulder. He looks up, and it's Sandy at the head of a group of girls in pastel-coloured dresses.

Sandy giggles. "Howdy, doody," she says cutely and dimples at him. "We were just a-wonderin' if you'd like to have lunch with us!" The 'instead of _him_' hangs unsaid.

Castiel glances at Sam; his eyes are firmly pointed at his feet and it looks like he's already resigned himself for what he thinks is coming. "B-but I'm-m-m-alr-ready having l-lunch with Sam," Castiel says seriously, and is immensely confused when some of the girls coo at him, clutch at each other, and giggle. "Th-thank you for the off-off-offer, though."

Sam's head jerks up and he smiles a small, confused smile at Castiel as the girls shuffle away in disappointment, casting adoring looks over their shoulders at Castiel.

"You clanked the queens of the school for lunch with a greaser?" Sam asks, and there's a quietly suppressed laugh in his voice. "That's pulling the Dutch act socially, y'know."

Castiel only has vague ideas about what all of Sam's phrases mean—he assumes unintelligible slang is a greaser thing—but goes along with it anyway. "I don't m-mind."

For the rest of lunch, Sam fills Castiel in on the ridiculous social norms of Lawrence High School. There is bitterness in his voice when he speaks of a group called the "Socs"—and Castiel senses instinctively that the Miltons belong to that group. And the Hamiltons. And Sandy and her friends. And everyone in school except Sam and the girls who sit in corners.

Sam really seems to idolise Dean, but based on his description, Castiel can't understand why for the life of him.

Lunch ends and it turns out Castiel and Sam are in the same English class. They go together—repeat the scene of Castiel making a complete idiot of himself in front of the other students—and Castiel is too busy being happy that he made a friend to notice the boys' dirty looks as girls flirt desperately at him.

The rest of the day drags on by, and by the time three-thirty rolls around, Castiel is about ready to die from exhaustion. He stumbles out of school just in time to see Sam eagerly leap into a massive black car that looks like it takes up half the street. It's playing what Castiel thinks might be an Elvis Presley song as loud as it can, and Castiel catches a glimpse of a wavy-haired, smiling silhouette—Dean—in the driver's seat before the car roars away.

He longs for a car to ride home in, but knows that'll never happen. So he sighs forlornly and begins his trek home.

* * *

"So how was school, Sammy?" Dean Winchester, greaser, mechanic, renegade, and role model, asks.

"I think I'm going to learn a lot this year!" Sam enthuses, having to yell over the music. "But the people don't seem to like me."

Dean cheerfully proceeds to call the students of Lawrence High every name he can think of. Sam just grins at him—he loves it when his brother is like this. Gloriously sober, smelling of motor oil and cigarette smoke from a long day at the garage, and standing up for his baby brother's honour. Because no matter how bad Dean's reputation gets, he will always be _this _at his core.

Dean lights up a cigarette and turns the music down. "Didja ever talk to that girl—oh, what was her name—Jess?"

The reaction he gets from Sam—ears burning red, hiding behind his own hair—is endlessly gratifying.

"No," Sam mumbles. "Of course not."

Dean snickers. "Such a coward." He reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair.

"Not a—Deeeean," Sam whines, batting him away. "You know I can't talk to her. She'd spit in my face."

Dean knows this is true—Jess comes from one of the classiest families in town and is currently going steady with a guy named Brady. Dean has met him and, as a result, advises Sam to stay away from them all.

"Oh, well," Dean says easily. "Make any friends?"

"One. I think. He's kinda a spaz, so it's hard to tell."

"Well, congrats," Dean drawls. "You are now not completely alone in the world."

"I had you," Sam objects. "And all _your_ friends."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Aw, but I don't count. And those actors I hang around with don't care much about anyone, least of all me."

They arrive at their house and Sam gets out of the car first. He runs up the steps and swings open the screen door, hollering, "We're ho-ome!"

Dean follows him and can faintly hear their father mumble "Great, now one of y'all can get me a drink." His words are slurred, and Dean calculates in his head that he's been drinking since before noon. Dean's jaw clenches and he gives Sam a shove toward the kitchen to get John a drink.

"Didja get any homework?" Dean asks.

Sam beams and shakes his head. "Nah, not yet. The wardens are too nice this year. Except for that Mizz Archer. She's a real moldy."

"She can't be too bad if she didn't give you any homework."

Sam shrugs, taking two beer bottles from the beat-up Frigidaire. He tosses one to Dean, who gratefully catches it in mid-air, and begins to take the other into their father's room. "She threatened to."

Dean hears John grumble, "And turn the TV set on" and Sam reply in exhausted, patient tones, "We don't have one, Dad." When Sam returns to the front room, he looks so dejected that Dean, pitying him, extends out his beer. Sam smiles, grabs it, and takes a swig. He tries to hand it back, but Dean just smiles and lights up another cigarette.

"Keep it," he says through the smoke curling from between his lips. "Celebration for first day of school."

"Thanks," Sam says and settles in the armchair across from Dean. Dean kicks his feet up onto the arm of Sam's chair and relaxes.

"So—" Dean takes a long drag and then just leaves the cigarette there, dangling loosely from the corner of his mouth, clamped between his teeth—"tell me 'bout this new scooch of yours."

Sam blinks. "Um, well, he's a junior. And he's new."

Dean puffs out an impatient wisp of smoke. "What's his name?"

"He has a bad stutter, so I'm not sure."

Dean just raises his eyebrows.

"Sounded like Cast-yell, though. Last name of Milton."

"Milton," Dean repeats pensively, closing his eyes as he sucks at the cigarette. "Think I've heard the name. What's he like?"

Sam shrugs again. "Quiet. Real quiet. But that's probably 'cause he's shy about his stutter. And his eyes are crazy blue. But he seems like a real bright kid. Even though he was terrified of everyone."

Dean hums contemplatively. "Sounds like a swell guy. 'S he a Soc?"

Sam drops his eyes. "Looks like one." His voice acquires a childish tone. "But he's really nice, Dean, I promise—"

Dean just chuckles and blows some smoke at him. "Nah, Sammy, I don't mind. Just wantcha to be happy."

They smile at each other and continue to smoke and drink.

* * *

"You're late," snaps a voice the second a panting Castiel stumbles into his home.

"I kn-know," he says, swallowing and trying to even his breathing.

It's his oldest brother, Michael. Born a full seven minutes before Lucifer and proud of it. "_Why_ are you late?" he demands.

Castiel looks at a clock. It is three-fifty; five minutes after he said he'd be home. "I—I'm s-s-sorry—"

"Forget it." Michael busies himself with reading the newspaper again, evidently not in the mood for Castiel's faltering excuses.

Castiel sighs. Out of all his siblings, Michael and Lucifer are certainly the most sensible, but also the meanest. However, Lucifer knows exactly what to say or do to hurt you because he can read people well and knows what'll torment them, and Michael is more likely to hurt you with his selfishness and utter apathy. And Castiel knows better than to try to talk to Michael now, so he slinks to his room and hides there until dinner, staring miserably at the ceiling.

He can hear Anna in the other room, chattering excitedly on the phone, and he remembers Sam's descriptions of Dean and how close they are. He will never be that close with his siblings, he thinks. Ever.

Nor does he want to.

At dinner, his mother tries to make small talk with her children. "How was your first day of school?"

"It was a blast!" Anna enthuses, mouth full, and is instantly chastised by the twins for her bad table manners.

Everyone looks at Castiel expectantly after Gabriel agrees with his sister, and he all but cowers. "F-fine," he mumbles, staring at his plate.

"Did you make any friends?"

"Lots," Anna says dreamily, and Castiel thinks of floppy-haired Sam and the way he talks and his worn shoes and tired eyes.

"No," Castiel says, voice so low his family will never be able to detect the lie.

After a pitying look or two, his family has forgotten their youngest son and moved on to discuss other things of actual importance.

"Father, did you ever get that report filed—"

Castiel pokes at his food miserably and continues to want to die.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY:_

_Space cadet: someone who's old-fashioned, weird, doesn't fit in_

_Yo-yo: a nerd_

_Howdy, doody: hello_

_Clanked: rejected_

_Queens: most popular girls_

_Pulling the Dutch act: committing suicide_

_Spaz: weird person_

_Actor: show-off_

_Warden: teacher_

_Moldy: bad teacher_

_Scooch: friend_

_Crazy: very_


	2. Rockin' Robin

_Howdy, doody!_

_It's me, finally back again with chapter two._

_I know the fandom is exploding right now, and I'm exploding, too, and just to keep us all a little bit more in, here's some fluff for ya._

_Again: there is a handy slang dictionary at the end of the chapter for all the words you won't understand, but if there's some other intricacy of '50s language/society you don't get, please feel free to drop me a line in the reviews, as a PM, on my tumblr, etc. etc. etc._

_Also, I highly suggest you look up what Dean's car (1957 Chrysler 300C) looks like. It's some eye candy, alright._

_So anyway, please enjoy this chapter, and I'd love reviews with what you thought! xoxoxo_

* * *

Dean is halfway to the garage after dropping Sam off at school when a little light starts to blink on his car's dashboard.

His car is breaking again.

Dean hisses a curse at her, clamping a cigarette between his teeth and grimly lighting it. He floors the gas pedal and zooms along, determined to reach the garage before she stops.

He's half a block away when she does.

With a bitter laugh, he stubs out his cigarette and gets out of the car. "Thanks a lot," he says sarcastically before jamming his hands in his pockets and stalking over to the garage.

It's already bustling with life when he gets there, and he can't hold back his grin when he smells the oil and metal and booze. "Hey, Gordon!" he hollers as he approaches. "She broke down again. Help me drag her in?"

Gordon walks out to him, wiping his hands on a small dishrag. "You oughta get yourself a new chariot," he advises for the millionth time.

"What, and give up Baby? Never!" Dean rebukes indignantly. His car is his only pride and joy besides his brother. A huge, sleek 1957 Chrysler 300C. He has the best car in town—even better than the Socs' Mustangs and Cadillacs—and he knows it. Dean got lucky with his car—he pulled her out of a wreck when she was new, but her owner didn't want to keep her anymore. So Dean took her and even though it took him more than a year to fix her up, he loves that car.

The only disadvantage is that she breaks. All the time.

Balthazar ends up joining them, and together they help Dean push the car down the street to the garage. Their boss, Bobby, yells at Dean to "leave that car alone and come do what you get paid to!" After a loving but reprimanding knock on his car's hood, Dean complies.

A lot of people in town stay away from that garage because of the neighbourhood it's in or the boys that work there.

Which is a shame, 'cause it's the best damn garage in the Midwest.

Dean's best with the muscle cars. Gordon sticks to the big sedans. Balthazar likes the tiny, sleek, futuristic cars, but always fixes up the oldest ones they get. And Alistair is the best salesperson in the place—he can make a person pay three times as much than is necessary for a simple service that he claims "extras" have been added to.

Coincidentally, they form the majority of the core greaser gang. There's also Victor and Crowley, but they spend far too much time passed out in the back rooms of bars to get jobs at the garage. Sam's considered a greaser, too, and so are all the girls, but Dean won't let Sam fight and the Socs won't hit girls. There's a few drifters that run with them sometimes. Garth, Harry, and Ed. But they're never much use in a fight and make for awkward company, so the normal greasers don't invite them over much.

They're a merry bunch when they're together, but the second they part ways, things get bad.

All the boys are like Dean—dropouts. Dean, at 19, is one of the youngest (though he'll be 20 in a little more than five months). Maybe it's because of seeing all the JD failures around him that Dean so insists on Sam going to school, though Sam enjoys it.

The day rolls along and they only get a few customers, meaning Dean has time to work on his car. He's got his hands under her hood, twiddling at the battery wires, when he hears Balthazar and Alistair talking.

"I heard the eldest two are twins."

"They are. I've seen them. Real nosebleeds. Tall and blond."

Balthazar snorts. "What, you scared of them or somethin'?"

"No," Alistair says calmly. "Just letting you know. They're from Boston, too, and everyone knows they don't rumble up there."

"I heard they've been arrested."

"For public intoxication, Meg said."

They snicker. "Pathetic."

Dean pokes his head around the raised hood and asks, "Hey, who are y'all bashin' ears about?"

Two identical smirks of bloodthirsty animals. "New family in town—the Miltons."

Dean raises his eyebrows and closes the hood of the car. He wipes his hands on his worn jeans and comes over to lean against his car's side. "Toss me a cancer stick, wouldja?"

"Not in my garage!" Bobby's voice yells.

Alistair grins and hands Dean a cigarette. Dean hooks it in between his lips and lights up. "So what about the Miltons?" he asks.

Balthazar shrugs. "They seem to be real oddballs. The oldest—don't know their names—work downtown, not sure where, and the father has a gig at one of the high-rise corp'rate places. There's a son who's a senior, but from what we've heard, he's actually a real hep cat. And…" He hesitates, memory failing him, and Alistair chimes in:

"There's a freshman daughter, too. And—"

"A kid who's a junior, right?" Dean finishes.

"So we've heard," Alistair shrugs. "I heard… well, I heard his roof is leaking, if you know what I mean."

"You said they were from Boston?" Dean clarifies.

"Mhm," Balth confirms. "Pale ones in every sense of the word."

They share a laugh, and then Bobby catches them smoking and doing nothing and sets them right back to work.

Dean works on his car until lunch, at which point he darts into the break room for a sandwich. There's a few girls there—Jo, Meg, and Lisa—and even though Lisa is all for hiding away in a cupboard with Dean for a few minutes, he's not really in the mood for dealing with his clingy, needy girlfriend right now. So he wolfs down his sandwich as fast as he can and makes up some excuse about a really difficult repair job on a Chevy Impala and runs out again.

The second he comes back, there is a particularly malfunctioning Chevrolet Impala waiting for him for real.

He loses track of how long he's been there as he gets into a rhythm. When he finally rolls out from under the car for some air and a drink, he catches sight of a clock.

"Shit!" he yelps, and that earns him a smack upside the head from Bobby for cussin' in front of a customer. "I gotta pick Sam up from school—completely forgot—"

He strips off his apron and shoves it at Gordon before jumping into his car and jetting away.

When he arrives at the school, there's still a considerable amount of students there, so it takes Dean a few seconds to find Sam. When he does, he sees his brother talking to a scrawny kid with a mop of unruly black hair. Sam sees Dean's car rolling along and waves to Dean; he apparently bids the other kid farewell, because they start to walk in opposite directions.

"Hi!" Sam chirps, sliding in next to Dean.

Dean is peering through the window at the retreating figure of the boy. "Hey, bean," he says absently and points at the kid. "Is that him? Your friend."

Sam nods, and that's all the encouragement Dean needs to satisfy his suddenly burning curiosity.

Castiel can see the car coming out of the corner of his eye—how could he miss it? He wonders idly if he'll get to meet _Dean_, but accepts that he probably never will.

Dean flashes Sam a grin and rolls the window down as he approaches the boy. "Hey!" he calls, and the kid slowly turns around.

This is Dean. It has to be. The car stops, and so does Castiel. The first thing he notices when he glances at the driver's seat is green. An expanse of green eyes, crinkled at their corners with a smile so blindingly beautiful it almost hurts to look at, pointed straight at him. His hair is a tawny, windswept mess of waves and one strands falls just over his eyes. Freckles span across his nose and cheekbones, and a well-defined jaw is dusted by stubble.

_This can't be Dean. This is—this is a movie star._

Castiel realises he is staring and blinks to snap himself out of it, hoping Dean's _beauty_ was just a hallucination; a fantasy.

It wasn't.

"Me?" he asks feebly, and Dean's smile only becomes more blinding as full lips draw back to reveal gleaming, pointed teeth. Castiel can't hold back his shiver.

_Having eyes that blue can't be healthy_, Dean thinks nonsensically as sparks scuttle along his skin when the kid looks at him. They practically glow as he looks at Dean, and Dean can't help but stare.

The boy is unearthly. His skin is just a shade too pale, his hair just a shade too dark, his shoulders just too narrow, his waist too slim… Everything about him is so overwhelming, Dean thinks he should avert his eyes—but he realises it'd be even more painful to not look.

"Yeah, you," he manages to get out, and the boy blinks again.

Dean's voice is a rasping drawl of whiskey and smoke and singing too loud, and Castiel thinks he could listen to him read the phonebook for days on end on a loop and never tire. He cautiously takes a step closer to the car. "Can—can I help you?"

"Just wanted to meet'cha, is all," Dean explains. "Sammy here wouldn't shut up about you, so—"

Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean for the first time to see a red-faced Sam shoving at his big brother's arm defensively.

"Would, too!" Sam protests. "May have mentioned you once or twice. I did say Dean tends to exaggerate…"

Dean doesn't even spare Sam a glance—he's too busy drinking the boy in front of him in with his eyes.

The boy's chapped lips slowly spread into a reluctant smile and he says, "I don't mind," in a voice like dusk. Then, his eyes snap back to Dean and Dean can't breathe.

Suddenly, Dean is scared, and needs to pass it all off lightly. He leans out of the window a little, blinking against the sunlight. "Well, hey, any friend'a'Sammy's is a friend of mine. No matter how much of a square he is." He doesn't mean the insult—because even though the kid is wearing Soc clothes, neatly pressed by his loving housewife mother, and has probably never kissed a girl or seen a pin-up, he's… beautiful.

Sam doesn't sense this and shoves Dean again. "Don't be rude, Dean," he reprimands.

Dean flashes Castiel another smile, and Castiel feels suddenly dizzy. He didn't even register Dean's cajoling words, but pretends he did and looks mildly offended.

Dean evidently accepts it and drawls, "Sorry, sorry." A new thought seems to strike him, for he suddenly leans out a little further. "What'd you say your handle was, anyhow? Sam says it different each time."

The kid cocks his head to the side a little, pinning Dean with a calculating, probing stare as his blue eyes narrow in confusion. "I didn't say my… _handle_ was anything. But it's Castiel. Milton."

Before he can overthink it, Dean is reaching out the window to shake Castiel's hand, even though _damn_, that name is a mouthful.

Castiel reaches out to shake it, and Dean's hand is warm and dry and his golden, muscled arms are bare and they hold on for a just a little too long.

"Yeah?" Dean asks with a smile. "Nifty. Pleasure to meet you, Cas."

The nickname cuts through Castiel like the switchblade he knows Dean carries in one of his many pockets, and he nods mutely. "Likewise, Dean."

Dean finally releases _Cas's_ smooth, long-fingered hand and leans back into the car, still smiling broadly.

The sudden shift jolts Castiel back to reality. He swallows in panic and curses himself internally. "Do you have the time?"

Dean lazily glances at his car's clock. "Three-forty."

Castiel gives a whine of dismay as one hand leaps to tug frantically at his hair. "Oh, no," he breathes. "Um—I need to go—"

He curses himself, he curses his family, he curses the day he was born.

"It was nice to meet you," he says in Dean's direction, too afraid to look at him again because he knows that if he does, he'll not be able to leave. "I'll—see you around. Bye, Sam—"

And he dashes off along the street away from them, too anxious about being late to even notice that he didn't stutter a single time when talking to Dean.

Dean watches him go in the rearview mirror, and once he rounds the corner, slumps back and lets out a low whistle. "Gee whiz," he says slowly, mind whirling. "You sure do know how to pick your friends, Sammy."

"Thanks!" Sam smiles, and Dean starts to drive them home.

"…I thought you said he has a stutter so bad he can hardly talk," Dean suddenly frowns.

Sam blinks. "Well, he does."

"I didn't hear one."

"Neither did I."

"Hm."

"Hm."

Castiel—_Cas,_ he thinks suddenly and blushes bright red—runs all the way home. He's late, of course, but it's well worth it.

At dinner, when his mother asks him how his day went, he smiles privately into his food and answers that he made friends.

Dean sleeps and dreams of blue eyes.

Cas dreams of green.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Chariot: car_

_JD: juvenile delinquent_

_Nosebleed: a stupid idiot person. Just a basic meaningless insult._

_Rumble: fight_

_Bashing ears: talking_

_Cancer stick: cigarette_

_Oddballs: people who don't fit in_

_Gig: job_

_Hep cat: someone who is in the know, cool_

_Roof is leaking: a little bit crazy_

_Pale one: someone who is boring and bizarre_

_Hey, bean: hello_

_Square: an old-fashioned boring person_

_Handle: name_


	3. In the Still of the Night

_Hellooooo!_

_(Sorry for the wait. But I'm back now.)_

_First, thank you all very much for all your reviews and alerts and favourites- I'm so glad y'all are enjoying this story~!_

_So here's an update on how the story is progressing with me: I'm currently writing chapter seven and almost done, and I'll get typed up up to there soon. I'll be posting new chapters __**every four days**__, so if you're hoping for earlier, eh, well, sorry._

_Anyway, it's going to be a very long story, apparently. But I am SO excited. Like, you cannot believe. So. Excited. It ain't gonna be all cuteness and flirting, though~- I do have some real plot planned out. Like, not exactly of the happy variety. Ehehehe. (But nothing too bad, I promise. I'm kind of writing this as mild respite from all the mega-painful stuff I've been reading lately.)_

_Slang dictionary at the bottom._

_As always, I thrive off your feedback, be it negative or positive. So if you read/follow/favourite, please just drop me a line in a review, my PM box, my tumblr, etc, whether your thoughts be critical or supportive._

_Thanks for reading, and enjoy chapter three!_

* * *

In their first act of kindness to him all year, Michael and Lucifer offer to take Castiel to the movies. Anna begs to tag along, and so does Gabriel. Their parents decide their children can't go alone, so it ends up being a family affair.

Castiel refuses to let his mother choose his clothes, even though this is his first official social outing in Kansas. He likes to think that he's grown-up enough at 17 to select what he'll be wearing.

He ends up in a pale rose collared shirt that supposedly brings out the colour in his cheeks and a light green sweatervest that reminds him of the glint of Dean's eyes. Instead of brushing his hair down, he uses his hand to ruffle it up and it remains that way: all angles and curves sticking up darkly from his head.

He smiles at his reflection and follows his family out.

The movie theatre is small and half-empty. Anna is giggling excitedly about the main character in the film and Gabriel catches sight of some of his friends and goes to talk to them. Michael and Lucifer are talking business with their father whilst their mother listens politely and pretends to understand.

And then Castiel sees them.

They walk with identical swaggers, trailing cigarette smoke behind them. They laugh just a little too loud; their playful shoves at each other are just a little too strong.

Castiel knows what they are, and his breath catches in his throat as the word "greasers" whirls through his mind.

And there he is. Dean. At the head of the group. He has his arm slung around the shoulders of a thin, pretty girl with dark hair who clutches at him like her life depends on it. Castiel sees how easy they are around each other as they grin and look into each others' eyes and feels faintly sick without quite knowing why.

The group takes seats at the front of the theatre, and just as he is about to sit, Dean turns his head and sees Castiel staring.

Castiel instantly flushes and ducks his head, but Dean's lips curl up into a small smile and he nods to acknowledge Cas's presence. Castiel does his best to smile back, and Dean turns away.

* * *

Dean's first thought is that Cas looks miserable.

He sees him with his family the second Dean walks in, wearing softly coloured shirts that hug his narrow frame perfectly. Dean almost forgets for a second that he's there with Alistair and Balthazar and Gordon and Jo and Ruby and Crowley and, of course, Lisa, and wants nothing more than to go over there and cheer him up.

His eldest brothers really are tall and blond. The short brother is engaged in an animated discussion with a few random Socs, and a pale redheaded girl hangs on the arm of her delicate-looking mother who, in turn, holds the arm of the severe, grey-haired father. Even in his own family, Cas is the odd one out.

Then Cas turns his head and his blue eyes burn into Dean, and the drone of Lisa's chattering fades away.

All Dean can do is send him a brief smile as Lisa drags him to a seat, practically throwing herself into his lap as she runs her hands through his hair and whispers sweet things.

Dean doesn't even notice this as Cas smiles back and looks a little less miserable.

* * *

Castiel can barely focus on the film. Anna is shivering delightedly beside him, and the twins are yawning—such entertainment is beneath them. The picture is something about adventure and peril, but still Castiel's interest is not piqued.

So he thinks of Dean, still not quite knowing why he is so fascinated by this boy he barely knows: by the freckled, golden skin, by the laughing endless eyes framed by long, fluttering eyelashes—

He is pulled out of his reverie by Anna's sudden whining. "Mother," she whispers, "I'm thirsty."

Castiel decides to take this opportunity. "I'll g-get you a C-coke," he whispers back and she beams at him, pressing a sweaty one-dollar-bill into his palm.

"Get me some popcorn," Gabriel requests, eyes still glued to the screen.

Castiel nods and slithers out of his seat. From the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a figure from the greaser group up front leaving the theatre, too.

He makes it to the refreshment booth and breathes easily for the first time all night. He can never quite breathe deeply enough when he's with his family.

Just as Castiel gets into line, someone behind him clears their throat and a voice rasps, "Hey, ya, Cas."

He whirls around—and it's Dean.

"Dean!" Castiel says, a shocked smile tugging at his lips. "Hello."

"What's buzzin', cuzzin?" comes the incomprehensible reply, and Dean must sense Castiel's confusion, because he grins and clarifies, "Means 'how are you.' Or somethin' like it."

"Ah," Castiel says, and Dean reaches inside his pocket and fishes out a cigarette. "I'm doing well, I suppose." Which, considering Dean's presence, is an understatement.

Dean clamps the cigarette between his teeth and lights it. Castiel is transfixed. "Want one?" Dean offers, and Castiel shakes his head.

"No, thank you," he says politely, and Dean quietly laughs for reasons unclear to Cas.

"So you here with your family, then?" Dean asks, a wisp of smoke curling from his lips as he speaks.

"I am," Castiel replies guardedly. "My three brothers and sister. Who are you here with?"

Dean shrugs. "Some friends from the garage. My Sophie. And her friends."

The words hit Castiel like a weak blow to the gut, and he struggles to find a word for his emotions—he finally settles on "jealousy." Even though he has no idea if Sophie is Dean's secret sister. Or why he should even be feeling jealous.

Castiel has named one feeling, but he has no idea what to call the dozens more floating around inside of him.

He just knows he's never felt this way about someone before, even though he doesn't know what to call it.

"Oh," he says quietly, staring at his shoes. "Is—does Sophie go to Lawrence High?"

Dean puffs out a husky laugh and a cloud of smoke. "Her name is Lisa. 'Sophie' just means 'girlfriend.'" He suddenly looks awkward, too, and glances away with squinted, vague eyes. "Doesn't matter anyhow. I plan to end it tonight. Takin' her to the pictures is supposed to soften the blow."

"Oh!" Castiel says, trying to conceal his vindictive smile. "Er—is there any particular reason why you're ending this relationship?"

Dean regards him coolly, taking a long drag at the cigarette. "You writin' a book or somethin'?"

Castiel senses this means he's asking too many questions and blushes deeply. "S-sorry."

A chill tears through him and he prays Dean didn't notice the stutter. So far, Castiel hasn't stuttered once around Dean, and though he can't explain it, he's grateful.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Dean grins, and Castiel looks up again.

"I apologise for prying," he says anyway, and Dean's grin only widens.

"I said don't worry about it!" Dean repeats. He lightly nudges Castiel's foot with his own and adds, "You make the king's jive, by the way. Makin' me self-conscious."

Castiel blushes again and frowns. "I'm not sure I—"

Dean snickers. "What, did they not have slang where you're from? Means you talk pretty."

Dean's drawl and awful grammar make the most intoxicatingly charming combination. Castiel allows for a small smile and says, "Thank you, Dean. I usually don't, but…" He trails off.

"Yeah, so I've heard," Dean says, and Cas cocks his head curiously, wondering what Dean knows about him.

A loud grunt of impatience from the man behind the refreshments counter jolts their eyes away from each other. "You gonna buy anything or just make moon-eyes and hold up the line?" he snaps, and Dean flashes a cocky grin at him.

"Go ahead, Cas. You were here first."

Castiel thanks Dean and falteringly orders a large Coca-Cola and a popcorn, wincing with each stuttered syllable. He can feel Dean's gaze pricking curiously at the back of his neck, and shame burns at Cas's cheeks. He takes his refreshments and stumbles away, too timid to send Dean a parting smile.

But he hears Dean call, "See you 'round, Cas!" and buy two packs of cigarettes, a Coca-Cola, and three beers.

Castiel can't stop his smile, even as his brothers hiss "What took you so long?" and Castiel easily lies "G-got l-lost."

* * *

Dean's been meaning to end things with Lisa for ages, and he's not quite sure why he's suddenly brave enough to do it now.

He has the vague idea that it might have something to do with Cas.

The picture ends, and Dean sees the Miltons leaving, practically dragging Cas out. The kid barely has time to turn his mussed head and shoot Dean a weak smile that makes Dean's chest clench before he slips around the corner. Dean hears a car engine rumble and the Miltons are gone.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. Poor kid.

He gives a small smile at the memory of just how damn _cute _Cas sounded with a stutter, and Lisa evidently thinks he's smiling at her, because she shifts in his lap, winds her arms around his neck, and purrs, "You ready to get out of here, honey?"

Dean makes a face. "Look, Lisa—"

She giggles and bends down to nibble at his earlobe. "'Less you wanna neck in public."

He gently bats her away. "Lisa—we're done."

Lisa's brown eyes grow wide. "What?" she breathes.

"I… I think it's time we parted ways, y'know?"

"_What_?" she shrieks. Her lips slide into a pout and start to tremble as she crawls off him. "What did I do _wrong_?"

"Nothing," Dean says hastily. "I just—I—"

"Whatever," she snaps. "I thought you loved me, Dean."

He wrinkles his nose. "Did I say that?"

"No," she whines, "I just… felt it. So… really? It's really over between us? After everything?"

Dean nods, and Lisa makes a wailing sound and storms out, screaming, "Fine! Good riddance!" over her shoulder.

Once she's gone, Dean exhales and closes his eyes. "That went well," he says dryly and pulls out a cigarette before striding out of the theatre.

He drives home alone, and when he gets there, Sammy's sitting at the table, poring over a massive textbook.

"Hi, Dean," Sam says upon hearing the front door open and close, not looking up from the book.

"Hey, ya, Sammy," Dean replies, making a beeline for the fridge and grabbing a beer. "What'cha workin' on?"

"Homework, obviously," Sam sighs. "My head's kinda starting to hurt from all these numbers." With an annoyed growl, he slams the book shut and gazes at Dean. "I give up. How was the picture?"

Dean shrugs, joining him at the table. "Alright, I guess."

"Did Lisa like it?" Sam had never much cared for Lisa, and Dean honestly didn't blame him.

Dean makes a face. "How should I know? We don't exactly make polite conversation when we're together." He ducks his head and adds, "I broke things off with her tonight, actually."

"Dean!" Sam gasps. "Really? That's great! I—I mean, um, I'm sorry," he corrects himself. "Why, what happened?"

"No, it is great," Dean admits. "I'm kinda glad it's over. Nothing happened, really. I was just… done. Y'know?"

Sam doesn't know, but nods anyway.

"And now I'm free to explore!" Dean concludes triumphantly. He takes a swig of his beer. "Ran into your friend, by the way."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "…Castiel? What was he doing there? He doesn't really seem like a Friday-night-movie kind of guy."

"He ain't," Dean confirms. "He was there with his family." He trails off, thinking of Cas's intense blue stare and blushing cheeks, and when he finally looks back at Sam, his smile is dreamy. "Your friend is one classy cat, didja know?"

Sam giggles at that, and Dean frowns.

"What?"

"I just thought you were about to say 'classy chassis,' is all."

Dean just smirks and takes another drink. "Well, he is that, too."

"Dean!" Sam scolds, but Dean just grins wider, even when he tries to put his feet up on the table and Sam pushes them back off.

Everything is looking up for Dean Winchester.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY:_

_What's buzzin', cuzzin'?: what's up_

_Sophie: girlfriend_

_Are you writing a book?: you're asking too many questions_

_You make the king's jive: you talk nicely_

_Classy cat: a well-mannered person_

_Classy chassis: someone with a good body_


	4. Doo Wah Diddy Diddy

_Heyo!_

_Looking at this now... this is a short chapter._

_Ah, well._

_I am currently writing chapter 9, and the plot has kicked up, and ah im so excited wHY DOES THIS STORY MOVE SO SLOWLY WHY AM I SUCH AN IDIOT_

_Anyway, I promise the wait'll be all worth it in the end._

_As always, there is a slang dictionary at the bottom, and if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask._

_Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, followed, or even just read this story. Your kind words mean a lot to me._

_If you read this story and you like it, [clap your hands] please review. If you didn't like it, please review anyway and let me know why! I am always trying to improve as a writer._

_And with that, please enjoy chapter 4._

* * *

Dean Winchester is exhausted.

Bobby was out for the day, and one of the downtown garage-runners, Rufus, stepped in and worked the boys to the bone. They practically didn't get a second of rest all day, and Dean could barely keep his hands tight on the steering wheel as he drove Sam home. His hair is streaked with car grease, his neck and collarbones, exposed by the loose collar of his white t-shirt, are sweaty, and his lips are parted, dry, and breathless.

The second he gets home, he stumbles over to the Frigidaire and grabs a beer, wincing as its coldness stings the raw skin on his palms. He full-on crumples into a chair and lets out a groan as his muscles and bones click and unwind.

"By the way," Sam says, settling at the dinner table, "I have to be at Castiel's house at 5. We're doing a project together for English class. And it's too far to walk."

Dean chokes out a curse and flings his bottle cap at Sam. "Forget it," he mumbles. "'m not driving you _anywhere_. Not driving anyone anywhere ever again."

"Deeean," Sam whines, and Dean can hear his pout. "I thought you _didn't_ want me to fail high school." His tone is sweet and coaxing, and Dean groans, because it is _so _unfair that Sam knows how to exploit Dean's weaknesses.

"Fine," he grumbles. "I'll drive you to your boyfriend's house."

"He's _not_ my _boyfriend_, Dean," Sam squeaks indignantly. "You're the one in this family that likes to fool around with boys, not me."

Dean smirks. "Whatever you say, Sammy." There had only been a couple boys, really—not hundreds, like Sam made it out to be. Benny, a couple years back, had been a real good friend to Dean, first, and had helped bail him out of the county jail when Dean had gotten locked up for nearly killing the mayor's son. Dean had really thought Benny loved him, but really, he was a vampire, a parasite, living off of Dean's money and clothes and house. Using him. Their relationship had been all give-and-take, and Dean was the only one giving. A few months after Benny moved away, Nick had come along, and though he'd seemed utterly perfect at the start, he was really just trying to lure Dean away from Sam and the greasers and join the toughest gang of hoods downtown.

So none of them had lasted very long. And there hadn't really been any since. But Dean is still swingin' both ways, he knows.

The presence of Cas in his life only confirms that.

(And no one but Sam and a couple of Dean's very closest friends know, of course.)

"So what time is it now?" Dean grunts. "Do I have time to catch my 40 winks?"

Sam checks a clock. "It's almost four."

Dean sighs happily, sets his beer down, and curls up. "Shut your pie hole so's I can sleep. Wake me up when it's time to go."

He crashes into sleep and has dreams with faint glimpses of blue, blue eyes in them until he's being rudely awoken by Sam shaking him.

"Dean. Dean. Hey, Dean."

"Leave me alone," Dean growls, batting Sam's hands away. "I'm awake, see?"

"Time to drive me to Castiel's house!" Sam chimes, and Dean sits up with a groan.

"Do you even know where he lives?"

Sam gives him the address, and Dean draws a map in his mind. "Not too far," he muses. "Alright, fine, let's go."

The thought of seeing Cas again makes heat rise up in his neck and cheeks.

It's still light when Dean stumbles out of the house, blinking, with a book-laden Sam at his heels. Dean's t-shirt is still too tight and clings to him with the day's sweat that still hasn't evaporated, and Dean wrinkles his nose and cards one hand wildly through his hair, leaving it even messier than before.

He gets the sense that he looks horrible, and faintly regrets that Cas will have to see him like this.

Once the car gets to Cas's street, Dean starts to get a little uneasy. This is a really high-class neighbourhood, all baby-blue convertible cars and neatly trimmed lawns, and Dean's Chrysler stands out painfully.

Shockingly, they make it to Cas's house without incident. It's a very generic house; one story with a prim little hedge and a bicycle leaning against the door.

It looks boring as Hell, actually, and Dean kinda pities the kid.

As Sam digs around in the back seat for all his books, Dean decides to take a chance and brazenly goes up to the door, praying it won't be Michael or Lucifer that opens it.

He rings the doorbell and waits.

The door is pulled open, and the frail, red-haired girl he saw at the movies is standing there with huge, deer-in-the-headlights eyes. She sees Dean casually leaning against the doorframe and her eyes slide up and down his body, across his chest, before snapping to the car and Sam.

Even though her ensuing blush flatters him, Dean can't help wishing Cas had opened the door.

"Hi," she squeaks finally, looking up at Dean through her eyelashes.

"Hey, baby," Dean replies easily, and her blush deepens. "Your brother home?"

She raises her head a little, regarding him coolly. "Who wants to know?" she asks prettily, and Dean gives a small smile at her boldness.

"Dean Winchester," he rasps, and he can practically see her memorizing it to write in her diary. "And my brother, Sam." He jerks a thumb at the car, but she doesn't even look.

"I'm Anna," she says and smiles coyly. "Which brother do you want to see, _Dean_?"

Before Dean can answer, a voice from inside the house calls, "Anna? Wh-who's at the d-d-door?"

And Cas appears from the depths and stands behind Anna. His eyes lock with Dean's, and his blush rivals his sister's in brilliance.

Dean grins and points at him. "That one."

"That's Castiel," Anna adds unnecessarily, and Dean glances at her, faintly disdainful.

"…yeah, I know."

"Th-thank you, An-Anna," Cas says pointedly, and after a disgruntled "Nice to meet you, Dean," Anna slinks away.

Cas and Dean, now alone, just stare at each other.

"I'm, uh, here to drop off Sam," Dean says slowly, watching Cas's throat bob as he swallows, blush deepening in his pale cheeks as his eyes dart along Dean's body. "Wanted to say hello."

A small smile tugs up at Cas's lips and he meets Dean's eyes again. "Well, then, hello, Dean."

"Heya."

A few seconds of silence.

"We should be done around six-thirty, I think," Cas says uncertainly. "So you know when to pick him up."

Dean groans. "Kid can walk home, for all I care. I'm too damn tired to drive here and back again. Really long day at the garage," he explains.

"Oh," Cas says, blue eyes commiserative.

"—but," Dean sighs, "I'll pick him up anyway. It's kinda far to walk, even for a moose like him."

Cas smiles at him. "That's very kind of you, Dean." His eyes flood with concern and he softly asks, "Would you like some water or something? Your throat sounds very dry."

"Don't suppose you've got anything stronger?" Dean asks half-heartedly. Cas's eyes widen and he shakes his head. Dean shrugs. "Didn't think so. I'm fine, Cas. Thanks, though."

Cas opens his mouth to say something else, but Sam runs up by Dean and grins, "Hi, Castiel!"

"H-hello, S-sam," Cas says, and Dean senses he should go.

"Well, you kids have fun, now," he grins. "But not too much fun, Sammy, I still expect you to get good grades."

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks for driving me."

"I'll be back around six-thirty," Dean promises and his gaze lingers on Cas for a second. "Bye, Cas."

"Bye, Dean."

Dean shoots them a two-fingered salute, stumbles back over to his car, and drives away.

He almost forgets to pick Sam up, but remembers just in time. When he does, there's low notes of alcohol on his breath, but his mind is clear.

Dean rings the doorbell, one hand jammed in his pocket, the other resting against the wall. An easy smile plays across his face as he waits for the door to open.

It does, and standing in the doorway is a frowning blond kid with a sneer plastered on his face. One of the twins.

Dean's jaw locks, and he stands straight up, gazing at the guy coolly as his pulse thrums in his ears. He instinctively reaches for a cigarette and clamps it between his teeth, not lighting it yet. "What's up, doc?" he drawls, and the blond's eyes narrow.

"Winchester, right?"

Dean juts out his chin. "Dean."

"Lucifer."

Dean lets out a little huff of sardonic laughter, but, upon seeing Lucifer's eyes flash, masks it with a cough. "Where's Sam?"

"Your brother? He's around," Lucifer says vaguely.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Well, uh, couldja go tell him I'm here to pick him up?"

Lucifer rolls his eyes and retreats into the house, presumably to fetch Sam.

With shaking hands, Dean pulls out his lighter and clicks it to life, lighting his cigarette. He puffs on it almost desperately in an attempt to soothe his nerves. He really shouldn't be here, and he is terrified.

"—and I'll talk to Mizz Hartman about the last sentence," Sam's voice suddenly says, and Dean jolts, not having seen him approach. He's there, in the doorway, holding his books, and Cas is with him.

"Th-thank you, S-sam," Cas says, and then his eyes dart first to meet Dean's, then to his cigarette. Dean has to swallow a small noise at the _intensity _of Cas's blue gaze, and sends him a nod of acknowledgement.

"All done, Sammy?" Dean asks, and Sam and Cas exchange a glance before nodding. "Peachy. Let's split." Sam starts to leave the door, but Dean lingers, eyes still locked with Cas's.

"Thanks for inviting me over, Cas!" Sam chirps, and Dean notices Cas's slight twitch at the sound of the nickname. Dean, too, feels a hot twinge of _something _in his chest because that's _Dean's _name for Cas, not Sam's.

"Mhm," Cas says, looking back at Dean.

"See y'around, Cas," Dean finally says, and Cas sends him this tiny, electric smile that makes Dean's blood buzz.

"Bye, Dean," Cas starts to say, but a breathless voice from inside the house beats him to it.

Dean peers around Cas, and it's Anna blushing as red as her hair.

"Uh—bye, Anna?" Dean says uncertainly, and she ducks her head, beaming wide, and scuttles away.

Cas sends Dean a bemused look. "Bye, Dean," he repeats, something like a laugh in his voice, and Dean blows a puff of smoke his way. Cas wrinkles his nose ever so slightly, and Dean just grins and pulls Sam away.

As he drives them home, Dean, for reasons unknown to him, keeps the music off because of how damn _loud _his thoughts are.

"He doesn't stutter when he's talkin' to you," Sam says suddenly. Dean blinks.

"Hmm?"

"Cas." That twinge again. "When he's talking to you, he doesn't stutter."

"I didn't notice," Dean lies vaguely. He snickers, changing gears in the car. "Didja see his sister? Face like a Russian flag."

"Hair like one, too," Sam agrees dryly. "What, you think she's sweet on you or somethin'?"

Dean shrugs. "Hope not. She's too…"

"Socy?" Sam finishes, slumping back into his seat with a sigh. "Yeah. I know what you mean." He sounds ridiculously glum, and Dean can't help but pity him.

"Still no luck with that Moore girl?" he asks softly, and Sam shakes his floppy head.

"Of course not."

"Aw." Dean and Sam sigh in unison. "Well, you're not the only one dealing with social barriers," Dean says darkly, a flash of blue eyes in his mind. "Hang in there, kiddo."

Sam ducks his head, tips of his ears turning pink. "I was—thinkin', I was thinkin' of askin' her to the hop next week," he mutters shyly, almost like he doesn't want Dean to hear. Dean's resulting grin is huge.

"Hey, Sammy!" he crows, giving his brother's shoulder a congratulatory squeeze. "I'll be prayin' she says yes, kid. Boy, you got guts."

"Thanks," Sam mumbles, but he's smiling. "I don't know what I'll do if she… if she says no, though."

"Keep asking," Dean announces grimly. "Sooner or later she'll stop being able to resist'cha."

"You really think so?" Sam says hesitantly, brightening.

Dean gives a confident nod. "Tried it myself."

Sam scowls. "Yeah, but you're _you _and your Betty was probably in your league."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Sammy," Dean chides. "You're a good kid, y'know? Greaser or not. She'll be able to see that if she's got a lick of sense in 'er."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam repeats softly.

"Sure. And you better treat her right, kid. Treat her like a lady, just like I taught you."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know, I know."

"You better know."

They get home, and over dinner as Sam says grace, there are matching small smiles on the brothers' faces as they each think about the person they can't help but think of.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY:_

_Face like a Russian flag: embarrassed (as in, face got all red) (this was obviously back when Russia was still the USSR and all Communist and stuff awww '50s)_

_Sweet on you: likes you_

_Hop: school dance_

_Betty: a girl_


	5. Rinky Dink

_Hello, friends!_

_Here I am, back again with chapter 5._

_Erm, so, slang dictionary at the bottom, etc etc._

_As always, please, I thrive off your reviews, be they positive or negative._

_ALSO: thank you SO MUCH like sosososo much wowowoow to everyone who has been saying nice things to me ah guys I can't even handle this much love for my dumb little story wow /cries of joy_

_And yes, please let me know what you thought if you enjoyed or even if you didn't!_

_But in the meantime... chapter 5, and see you again in 4 days with chapter 6!_

* * *

"Dammit, Sammy, we're gonna be late!" Dean yells, and John grumbles something from the other room about language.

"I know, I know!" Sam pants, dashing from room to room.

"What's the holdup, anyway?" Dean says, disgruntled, tossing his car keys from hand to hand. "We shoulda been agitatin' the gravel a quarter-hour ago."

"I know," Sam whines again. He runs into the living room and crashes to a halt just in front of an unamused Dean. "I think I lost my shoe…"

"So wear one that doesn't match!" Dean commands, giving Sam a shove. Sam whines once more, but complies, running off.

They leave two minutes later, Dean swearing at Sam under his breath:

"—Jesus Christ Bobby is gonna skin me alive what were you thinking now I gotta take a shortcut through Goddamn Soc territory you want us to get knifed to death Sammy is that what you want God you never been late in your entire life and now I won't make it to work 'til an hour late dammit Sam—"

Sam is slumped low in his seat, but there's a smile on his face: Dean does this all the time.

Suddenly, Dean's tirade screeches to a halt, and he squints through the Chrysler's windshield at the shivering figure walking down the street, wrapped in a massive beige trench coat. "Hey," he says slowly, "ain't that Cas?"

Sam checks, too. "Looks like it."

Dean frowns. "Does he walk to school? It's three miles from here."

"I've never really asked," Sam shrugs.

Dean furrows his eyebrows. "He'll be a full hour late goin' his speed. Unless he catches 'monia first—it's cold out."

But Dean's mind is already made up.

"Sammy, roll down your window."

Sam gripes at the cold, but does as he's instructed.

"Cas!" Dean calls, slowing the car. "Cas?"

The kid turns around, and it is Cas, blue eyes brighter than usual and pale cheeks flushed pink. "Dean?" he rasps, frowning and stopping, too.

"You walkin' to school?" Dean asks, and Cas looks sheepish.

"I left late," Cas admits. "I usually leave around seven forty-five."

Dean whistles. "Damn."

"I like being punctual," Cas shrugs.

Dean sees him shiver, and jerks his head to the empty back seat of the car. "Want a lift?"

Cas draws back, hesitant. "You—really?"

Dean grins. "Get in, Cas. I'll turn up the heater and the radio. It'll be great."

Dean can see Cas weighing the pros and cons, but after a second or two of further shivering, he pulls the door open and slides into the back seat.

"Smart move, kid," Dean praises, glancing into the rearview mirror and meeting Cas's eyes.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says, and Dean grins, practically able to hear him thawing.

"Hi, Cas!" Sam finally says, turning around to send him a smile when Dean starts the car back up.

"H-hello, Sam," Cas says amiably, but his and Dean's eyes flash at each other in the mirror.

Dean shivers involuntarily.

"Welcome to the Dean-mobile," Dean adds, patting the dashboard fondly. "My pride and joy."

"She's quite something," Cas says gravely, and Dean's grin is positively blinding. For a moment, he can't even formulate words. Eventually, he settles for shoving a protesting Sam in the shoulder.

"See?" he says gleefully. "I'm not wacko for calling my car a 'she!'"

"How could anyone call her anything but?" Cas asks mildly, and Sam scowls. Dean sees relief in Cas's blue eyes, and smiles at him.

"Yeah, she's my baby. Pulled her outta a crash and made her mine," Dean explains proudly.

Castiel hums, contemplating this. "That's right—you work at Singer's in midtown, don't you?"

Dean, surprised, nods. "Sammy tell ya?"

"Mhm," Sam confirms. "Told him you were Lawrence's mechanic pride and joy."

"Aw, shucks, kid," Dean drawls, but he's smiling. "Cas—your daddy's car ever break down, y'bring it to me, hear? Cheaper than the other places, we are. Not to mention the better service."

Cas nods solemnly. "I'll inform him."

"Yeah, kid, you do that."

In the rearview mirror, Dean sees Castiel flush and glance away. This is oddly gratifying to Dean, and he grins and turns the radio on. An Elvis song—one of Dean's favourites—plays, and Dean bats Sam's hand away when he tries to change the station.

Cas's eyes are filled with something unrecognizable as he listens, watches, and melts.

Dean drops them off at school three minutes later, cold creeping back into the car behind them.

He's a full hour late to work, and pays for that dearly in hard labour—

But, he thinks, all this extra work is worth seeing Cas.

* * *

The next morning, Castiel is very grateful that he wound his alarm clock just right the previous evening; it wakes him up just a little earlier than usual, giving him ample time to dress and eat a well-rounded breakfast and deliberately _not _brush his hair. He's about to slip unnoticed through the door and leave when a deep voice—his father's—growls "Castiel!" and the boy in question freezes.

"Y-yes, F-father?" he asks, slowly turning around.

"What's this I hear about you being half an hour late to school?" his father thunders.

Castiel hangs his head. "I l-left l-l-late," he mumbles.

"It better not happen again," Emmanuel hisses and stalks away.

Castiel sighs, accepts his impending fate, and leaves the house. When he's turned around to lock the door behind him, he hears the roar of an engine revving and looks over his shoulder.

His heart leaps up to his throat and he just stares—

Because it's Dean (and Sam, of course) bright-eyed and wet-haired, leaning out of his car's window and waving to Cas.

Castiel nods dumbly, finishes locking the door, and goes down the driveway to Dean.

"Hey, kid!" Dean grins, and Cas just raises a confused eyebrow. "Bet you're wonderin' why we're here."

"I… suppose you could say that," Castiel says carefully.

"Thought we'd give you a lift!" Dean explains.

"He woke me up fifteen minutes early—" Sam begins to add, but Dean shoves at him to make him quiet, still beaming at Cas.

Castiel cocks his head to the side. "You went specifically out of your way to offer me transportation," he states.

Dean shrugs. "I guess. So—whaddoya say? I found a radio station that plays nothing but Jerry Lee Lewis," he entices, but Cas is already won.

"Thank you, Dean," he says, everything fluttering oddly inside of him, and gets in.

* * *

They repeat this every morning, rain or shine, Dean and Sam risking their safety to show up bright and early to drive Cas to school. But they don't mind (even though Dean gets written up twice for being so late to work).

Castiel makes no friends at school besides Sam, but he doesn't need them anymore—he's got his Winchesters.

He still refuses to let them drive him home, which Sam, oddly enough, sees as a blessing, because it means he has a chance to confront Dean.

"You stole him," he accuses, just after he's gotten into the car and both brothers have waved Cas goodbye.

Dean blinks, mind hazy from a long day at work and from seeing that new sweater Cas has got on. "What? Stole who?"

"Cas!" Sam huffs. "You stole him."

"Didn't steal anyone," Dean grumbles, trying to turn the music up to drown Sam out, but Sam stops him.

"We used to actually talk about interesting things," he whines. "Books and plays and even politics. And _now_, it's just 'Dean, Dean, Dean this, Dean that, and what's this about Dean?'"

Dean feels a curious, tugging warmth curling and tingling through his limbs. "You—he talks about me?" he asks, trying to sound uninterested.

Sam nods miserably. "Asks me all about you. It's like he's only friends with me to be friends with you! Honestly, Dean, if he was a girl, I'd think he was on the hook for ya."

Dean flushes deeply. "Well, he ain't," he says flatly. His next words are bitter, painful lies spewing out of his mouth, but he continues: "And he ain't even my friend. Or yours, not really. He's not like us. He looks down on us, Sam, and you know it. People like us can't be friends with people like the Miltons."

"But they're _just people_," Sam mumbles, slumping low in his seat.

"You know what they are," Dean snaps, and there's a brief silence as the boys think of their mother. "Anyway, Sammy, we can be nice to him and his folks'n'all, but callin' it 'friendship' is wrong, 'cause we ain't equal." Dean nods to signify he's done speaking, hating himself for what he's just said. Of course Cas is his friend, and his name and family don't really matter. And Sam's comment about Cas being sweet on Dean still makes his stomach twist with warmth. But rules are rules (_man shall not lie with man, Soc shall not be friends with Greaser_). Dean has to respect that.

But he's never been one to stick to them, respect aside. And in this case, he doesn't intend to.

Now, he sees Sam's glum look and sighs. "How's Jess?"

Sam brightens instantly. "Great! She looked real pretty today, and I wanted to tell her so, but her friend Deborah was—"

His chatter fades away, and Dean gives a small smile, glancing out the window as the neighbourhood becomes rougher. When they get home, their father is asleep, and Sam does homework until the time comes for him and Dean to bicker over making dinner.

And no matter how hard Dean tries, he can't get Sam's words about Cas out of his head.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY:_

_Agitating the gravel: leaving_

_Wacko: insane_

_On the hook: in love with_


	6. Lonely World

_Hey, pardners!_

_Chapter six for you!_

_I think this one is slightly longer (well, anything is long compared to last time's, ugh, sorry) than the others? But I could be wrong. Hm._

_Oh, and I haven't said this in any earlier chapters, but the chapter titles are all songs from the '50s that I thought either sounded right for the chapter or have something to do with what happens in them. This only becomes mildly relevant and/or amusing around chapter 8._

_Thank you SO much for all of your kind words. Thank you. Gah. You can't fathom how much all of this support and recognition of my hard work means to me. THank oyoufhjkn dkjfnk_

_Slang dictionary at the bottom, of course!_

_As always, I love getting feedback, be it negative or positive. My PM box is open on here, as is my askbox on tumblr. There's a tag on tumblr (bubblegum and cigarettes) and I also love just getting reviews on here. So if you read it and enjoyed/didn't enjoy, please let me know!_

_And with that... enjoy chapter 6. See you in four days!_

* * *

It is Saturday.

Castiel Milton's very favourite day of the week.

His parents usually (always) insist that he do his homework the day it's assigned, and his teachers don't like to give work over weekends—so, aside from a few chores, Castiel is free all day.

He allows himself to indulge and sleeps in late—his brothers' glares as he makes himself breakfast at half-past-nine are well worth the two extra hours of sleep. Anna is watching some cartoon on the television set, and Castiel joins her for a few minutes before his father announces that it's Castiel's turn to wash the breakfast dishes (Castiel has been keeping track, and it isn't his turn, but he knows better than to fight back).

It takes him a while to finish, and when he does, Michael and Lucifer are gone, having left to "spend time with their friends," apparently.

Castiel would inwardly laugh and say, "What friends?" but he's not really one to talk.

He takes almost sinfully long in the shower, letting his tired muscles unwind, washing Kansas's disappointments thoroughly out of his hair. Eventually, Gabriel thumps on the door and yells at him, so Cas reluctantly gets out, dries off, and gets dressed.

He spends the next hour or so in his room, listening to the radio and trying (and failing) to sketch the tree he can see through his bedroom window. But it's like his hand isn't connected to his mind, because every time he starts, all he can draw are the curves of full lips, the constellations of freckles, _those eyes_—

There is a sharp knock at his bedroom door and Castiel scrambles to conceal his drawings of Dean before calling, "C-come in!"

It's his father. "Turn that music down, Castiel. Your mother is resting. And please go get the mail." Emmanuel leaves, and Castiel sighs and shuts his radio off.

After making sure his sketchbooks are well-covered, Cas finally makes his way out of the house, down the walkway, and to the mailbox. He dawdles there slightly, flipping through the letters—Aunt Hester, University of Kansas, bills, Cousin Inias (probably asking for money _again_), a Sears-Roebuck catalogue. Nothing for him and nothing interesting.

He tucks the letters under his arm and is about to turn and go back into the house when he hears a breathless voice gasp out, "Cas!"

Castiel turns, and it's Dean. His eyes are even wilder than his hair and a blood-purple bruise is forming under one of them. The leather jacket he's wearing has a slashed tear starting in the right shoulder which tapers off to a long scratch going down the whole sleeve. He's limping slightly as he runs towards Cas, and there's blood beading just under his jaw.

He looks like a hood for the first time since Castiel met him—

—but mostly, he just looks like a scared little boy.

"Dean," Castiel says, bracing Dean's knife-slash-free shoulder (because the damage on his jacket is undoubtedly the work of a blade) when he runs up close enough.

"Cas," Dean repeats, but his words are swallowed by a cough.

Castiel is about to ask Dean what happened when he sees a flicker of movement from inside. "Oh, no," he hisses, gripping Dean's collar and, despite Dean's wince, dragging him over to behind the tree so they are shielded from view of the house's inhabitants. Dean winces again, one hand supporting him against the trunk and the other fumbling inside his jacket. He wheezes in frustration, hand falling empty to his side.

"My cig'rettes—other jacket," he says weakly, and Castiel grips his shoulders again to keep him up. Dean is exuding so much body heat it almost burns Cas's palms, and he can see sweat sheening his forehead. "Oh, I could really use a smoke right now—"

"Dean," Castiel interrupts seriously. "You can smoke later. What happened?"

Dean swallows, throat bobbing, lungs burning, mouth dry. "Got jumped," he explains. "Not too bad, though."

"Not too bad," Castiel repeats with a scoff. "Who did this to you?"

Dean suddenly freezes, green eyes growing cold with panic. "Doesn't matter," he stammers hoarsely. "Look—I should go—"

"_Dean_." Dean looks at him, fear slowly ebbing away. "Take deep breaths, Dean. Did they chase you here?"

Dean nods and begins to struggle out of Cas's grip. "Dammit, Cas, I can't stay here, not now, I gotta go—"

"I'm trained in first aid," Castiel says firmly. "You can hide in my room until whoever did this to you isn't a threat anymore. I'll disinfect that cut on your neck and give you some ice for that bruise. Now _come on_."

Dean touches a hand to his neck and looks stunned when his fingers come away red. He makes a whining noise at the back of his throat. "No—Cas—you ain't gettin' with it here—"

"Please," Castiel says simply, and just like that, Dean is won. He slumps and nods, but his eyes are grateful. Cas beams. "Alright. You go around the side of the house to the back door. I'll meet you there in thirty seconds to let you in. Go." Castiel releases Dean's shoulders and, after another warm, grateful look, Dean is darting through the shadows and away.

Castiel hurries back into the house, ignoring his father's query of "What took you so long?" Adrenaline roars in his ears, and his pulse thrums with concern for Dean. He unlocks the back door as quietly as he can, and Dean lurches in, eyes huge and breath ragged.

Cas leads him to his room, disregarding Dean's "Cas, I'm fine, I've had worse, just—" and slinging a supporting arm around Dean's (slim, wiry) waist. Each step is calculatedly quiet, and no one sees them making their way.

They finally get to Castiel's room, and Cas lowers Dean to behind his bed, hissing, "Wait here," before slipping out and partially closing the door.

* * *

_This isn't exactly how I pictured my first time in Cas's bedroom being_, Dean thinks idly. He lets his head fall back to rest against the neatly made bed, all soft-blue and creamy white plaid sheets, and inhales, and it's _Cas_. The bubblegum and cologne and cold winter air smell that Dean has been sensing everywhere—it's all over this bed, at maximum strength, and Dean is finally cooling down, heart rate slowing, muscles relaxing, and he would like nothing more than to (no matter how horribly, idiotically _feminine_ it sounds; he's tired, scared, and not thinking clearly) slip under the sheets, curl up in their warmth, be surrounded by the air that Cas breathes and the aroma he exudes, and maybe—

Dean blinks and snaps out of it. He shakes his head to clear it and, needing a distraction, stands with a muffled groan and pads over to Cas's desk. It is, of course, meticulously neat. There is a small row of books there—a couple with foreign authors and foreign names, one or two Dean actually recognizes by the likes of Joyce and Fitzgerald and Ginsberg and Kerouac—and a few school binders. And a couple of Bibles.

Only one part of the desk is messy, and oddly so: a few papers and pamphlets haphazardly strewn over… something. Dean can't restrain himself—he sees the spiral binding of a notebook and can't turn back now.

After a wary glance at the door, Dean slips the coverings off and stares.

It's him. Cas has drawn him—or at least, a few details. He's got sketch upon sketch of Dean's eyes, eyebrows bent into a myriad of expressions, complete with the spidery laugh lines spreading from the corners of his eyes and the small scar under his right one. He's drawn Dean's mouth, over and over—the curve of Dean's nose with the smattering of freckles and even the silhouette of his waist.

Dean flips through the pages, transfixed. Dean's hands on the steering wheel, complete with the ring on his right hand, Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. Dean feels an odd lump in his throat and a fluttering, clenching feeling in his chest, because—

He should stop looking through this, really. He scrambles to close the sketchbook and cover it back up, glancing toward the door again—and freezes in terror when he makes eye contact.

The amber-eyed boy—_Gabriel_—just raises an eyebrow, looks Dean up and down, shrugs, and walks away, nudging the door a little more shut as he leaves.

Dean exhales in relief and quickly returns to resting behind the bed, mind whirling and heart pounding with the implications of what he's just seen in Cas's sketchbook.

* * *

When Castiel quietly moves out of his bedroom, Michael and Lucifer are just returning home. Castiel peers warily around the corner to see where they're headed—they move into the kitchen, where they converse in low tones as they smoothen their hair back down.

Castiel (mentally issuing a quick prayer for forgiveness) eavesdrops.

"Well, now we know he can't even put up too much of a fight," Lucifer says, and they both snicker.

"Son-of-a-bitch sure can run fast, though," Michael muses, and Castiel frowns, having never heard his brother swear before. Who are they talking about?

"So," Lucifer begins with a sigh, "that's Winchester scared witless. When do we get the others?"

Castiel's eyes go huge, his blood runs cold, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp.

Of course. Now it all makes sense. Why Dean was so reluctant to hide here, why Michael and Lucifer were gone for so long.

This is bad. This is very, very bad.

Unnoticed, Castiel slips by to the pantry as the twins discuss their next move in "showing the greasers who's boss." With shaking hands, he retrieves the white box with the red cross on it and all but runs back to his room.

Dean is still by the bed when Cas returns: Castiel kneels by his side, unclasping the kit, and whispers, "Michael and Lucifer are home. I have to hurry and you have to keep quiet."

Dean's eyes widen and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Cas hisses out a "Shh" and Dean nods in compliance.

"They never come into my room anyway," Castiel assures him in a whisper, gently daubing a disinfectant-dripping cotton ball along the cut on Dean's neck. Dean winces in pain but doesn't pull away.

Castiel, oddly, is seized with the bizarre urge to lean in just a little more and press his lips to the wound—"kiss it better" as his mother Eve used to do when Cas was a child and would fall and scrape his knees. He flushes and pulls back a little, getting the faint sense that he probably shouldn't be having feelings like that about a boy, let along one of his only friends.

Eyes firmly fixed away from Dean, Castiel retrieves a small ice-pack from the kit, wraps it in a cloth, and hands it to Dean.

When their fingertips brush, their eyes meet, they freeze, and the air in the room is suddenly hard to breathe, and Castiel swallows, and Dean licks his lips, and energy crackles around them—

—and then Castiel pulls back, turns away, face scarlet red, under the pretense of closing the kit. He hears a quiet, wheezing chuckle from Dean, but doesn't dare look.

"Keep pressure on it until the swelling goes down," Cas advises quietly and finally looks at Dean.

The expression in Dean's one exposed eye slams into him like a punch in the gut, and he is left utterly breathless as he drowns in green, as Dean's warm gaze cuts and splinters and mauls its way through Castiel's heart, leaving Cas hollowed out and then remade, filled with nothing but Dean.

And then Dean just blinks placidly and mouths out, "Gotcha." The moment is, once again, lost, and Cas has to focus very hard on breathing normally as he helps Dean to his feet.

They stand staring helplessly at each other for a few seconds, and then Dean glances at the door and begins to say something, but his midnight rasp of a voice is so low Cas can't hear.

"Sorry, what?" he hisses.

Dean rolls his eyes and leans in close, breath hot and tickling at Castiel's ear. "Time for me to cop a breeze," he whispers. "You've been a real angel, Cas, I, uh—thank you."

There is an absolutely insane moment when both of them wildly think that Dean is going to move his mouth just a little more, press his lips to Cas's cheek and leave them there for a beat or two—but then Dean thinks of what happened with Benny, with Nick, of how special Cas is to Sam, of the innocence in Cas's too-blue eyes—and Castiel closes his eyes and clenches his fists and _doesn't _inhale Dean's cigarette and leather and clean springtime air smell and thinks desperately of the Bible and what Father says God wants—and so Dean pulls away and silently follows Castiel out his room's door and through the back to the yard.

"Thanks," Dean says again once they're outside. "I mean it—thank you, Cas."

Castiel smiles, half-in, half-out of his house. "Any time, Dean. And I promise not to tell my brothers you were here."

Something like endearment floods Dean's eyes and, after a quick nod, Dean turns to go.

"Dean?"

He instantly looks back. "Yeah?"

Cas bites his lip. "Stay out of trouble," he requests quietly.

Dean gives a short, humourless laugh, backing away. "Kid, you don't know me." He throws Cas a brief salute. "Later, gator." And with that, he's gone.

Castiel watches him go, numb inside and feeling more betrayed and broken than he's ever felt in his entire life, just because of Dean's parting words.

He ends up locking himself in his room until dinner, lying miserably on his bed, too upset and distracted to read or draw.

_Kid, you don't know me_.

He falls into a half-sleep, flashes of green eyes hard and unyielding, pretty lips twisted into an almost-sneer all over his mind.

_You don't know me_.

Castiel tries to draw, but gives up midway and tears the page out and crumples it and rips it and doesn't feel one bit better.

All he can see are green eyes, glancing up, one eyebrow cocked in a taunting stare.

_Kid, you don't know me._

"No," Castiel agrees out loud firmly, "but I'd like to."

"Castiel?" A loud knock on his door—it's Emmanuel. "Did you say something? Dinner's almost ready—come and set the table."

Cas could almost laugh. "I d-didn't," he says hastily, standing up. "I'll b-b-be r-right the-there."

He sends a small smile out the window and makes a silent promise: _Dean Winchester, I'll get to know you whether you like it or not_.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Get with it: understand_

_Cop a breeze: get out of here_

_Later, gator: bye_


	7. Donna the Prima Donna

_Hello, friends!_

_First off, thank you so much for all your reviews and messages. I never know what's going to strike a chord with my readers, but it's really entertaining when all of you band together as one against the evils of the Milton twins. Ha._

_NO BUT SERIOUSLY thank you SO much to everyone who has offered kindness to me and this story. You make writing so much more worth it._

_This chapter features lots and lots and lots of slang. Around twice as much as other chapters. So there's a super-handy slang dictionary at the bottom, as usual, and you're probably gonna need it this time._

_Okay, so this chapter also marks the beginning of one of the two main plot points of this story! And this is where the titles of chapters start meaning stuff._

_Anyway, please leave me a review/PM/ask with your thoughts so I know what to expand or improve on. I thrive off feedback of any sort._

_And with that, please enjoy chapter 7! See you again in four days._

* * *

"Dean's met all of them!" Jo announces with glee, and Dean gives a faux-bashful grin at the rest of his friends.

A demanding chorus of "what are they like?" rises, and Dean waves a hand in the air to shut them all up. They do.

(Dean is the storyteller of the group; when he's talking, everyone hangs rapt and silent.)

"Well," Dean drawls, "I don't quite see what all the fuss 'bout them is. I wouldn't call them dullsville, but they ain't all that special, neither. They're just people, y'know? Average Socs."

The garage had closed up early, and now Dean, Jo, Meg, Balthazar, Gordon, Ruby, Alistair, Crowley, and Lisa (sullenly sitting alone in a corner) are all gathered in the back room, gossiping about the Miltons. Dean is sprawled out on a bench with his head in Jo's lap, across from Ruby and Alistair; the others are perched in various chairs around the room.

"It is true that Gabriel, y'know, has a bad bunk habit?" Ruby asks eagerly.

Crowley nods. "Yeah, I've talked to him. Kid is so spaced out he don't even know what planet he's on."

"Dean?" Jo prods, asking for confirmation.

Dean shrugs. "Dunno. Got good vibes from him. Seems harmless."

"The girl's a real barbecue," Alistair adds slowly and Ruby, ever-jealous of the girls her boyfriend's wandering eyes turn to, shoves him.

"What, Anna?" Dean snorts. "Sorry, daddy-o, your girlie's too shy to even talk to me. Polite little thing."

"I'd ask about that Cassie kid, but you never clam up about him anyway," Gordon snickers, and Dean frowns at him.

"_Cas_," Dean corrects.

"No one cares, Dean."

"Tell us about what happened with you and the twins!" Meg urges, sitting forward.

Dean glances at the eager faces around him and smirks. Even though he's one of the youngest in the group, it sometimes seems that he's the leader. Everyone—hell, even Jo, who's like the rude younger sister Dean never wanted—looks up to him, and though it makes no sense, Dean appreciates it.

He takes a deep breath and begins. "I was just walkin' along, going over to buy myself a few more due backs, when those two get all up on my turf. I told 'em, real polite, being in this neighbourhood's a real dicey thing for boys like them, but they didn't listen. Stayed right there, didn't let me pass. And then they really goofed, y'know—threw a punch at me. So I showed them what's what. Now they know not to mess with me."

"It's not polite to lie, Dean," comes a gravelly voice from the doorway, and Dean grins wide.

"Aw, shut up, Cas." Suddenly, he frowns and sits up so suddenly that Jo squeaks in protest. "Wait—Cas?"

And it's him, standing with tense posture just outside the door, jaw clenched and knuckles white on the heavy books he's holding. "Dean," he acknowledges, eyes darting nervously around the roomful of interested faces.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asks incredulously, and Cas blushes. "This is a tough part of town, you know."

"I was sent to get groceries," Cas explains lamely, holding up a cloth bag. "Took a shortcut back. Past the library. And here."

"There's a library in Lawrence?" Balthazar laughs with genuine surprise, and Dean winces.

"…yes," Cas says bemusedly, eyes landing on the ground.

"So what brings you to the garage? Car break down?" Dean asks, and Cas looks up again.

"No, I—I wanted to ask if Sam was alright," Cas replies, shifting from foot to foot. "He wasn't in school, so—"

"He's fine," Dean interrupts with a laugh. "Chemistry class field trip. He's at home right now, just fine."

"Oh." Cas looks relieved. "Good."

"Dean," comes a sharp voice from the other side of the room: Meg. Her eyes are fixed on Cas in a way that makes Dean's blood twist uncomfortably. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Oh—sorry," Dean says, flustered. "Ha, where are my manners?"

"Long dead and gone and cremated and cast into the sea," Crowley comments dryly and lights up a cigarette. Dean scowls at him.

"Everyone—this is Castiel Milton. Obviously."

"Obviously," Jo echoes. "Nice to finally meet you, Cas. I thought you'd be taller."

Dean frowns at her, too. "Cas, this is Jo, Ruby, Alistair, Lisa, Balthazar, Crowley, Gordon, and—"

"Meg," Meg interrupts, voice unrecognizably breathy, striding over to Cas and looking him up and down slowly. Dean squirms. "It's a _pleasure_." She extends out a hand, and Cas politely shakes it.

Dean snaps and decides enough is enough. "Hey, Cas," he says easily, standing up. Meg drops Cas's hand after a lingering, sultry glance and backs away. "Wanna get out of here? Ain't exactly safe with these clowns."

A few fond grumbles from the rabble.

Castiel glances at his watch. "I'm expected at six…"

"I'll walk you home, come on." Dean snags his newly repaired jacket off the hook and lets Cas go out first. "See y'all tomorrow," he says over his shoulder and leaves.

It's a little cold out, and dusk is falling. Cas's eyes, impossibly, look even bluer in the evening light, and Dean is hypnotised.

"Thank you, by the way," Cas says suddenly, breaking Dean out of his trance.

"For what?" Dean smiles. "Walkin' you home or getting you out of the garage?"

"Both?" Cas admits with a shaky laugh. "I just—I don't do well with… people. In general. I'm sure your friends are wonderful, but I—"

"Oh, they're not," Dean grins. "Good-for-nothin' lowlifes. Even the girls."

"Hm. I'll just have to take your word for it," Cas says doubtfully.

"And thanks for checkin' up about Sam."

"Of course," Cas says with a smile and hesitantly adds, "That's… what friends are for, yes?"

Dean's chest clenches, and he bitterly regrets the words he said to Castiel last week—_kid, you don't know me—_because right now, Cas isn't stating that he was just doing his duty as a friend; he's _asking_. Because he genuinely doesn't know what friendship entails. Because he's been so alone his whole life.

Dean's mind flashes back to when Cas helped him last weekend, hid him, healed him—and can't hold back his proud smile. He nudges Cas's shoulder gently with his own. "Yeah. You're a hell of a friend, Cas."

Castiel blushes and ducks his head, but he's smiling, too.

After a few minutes of walking in comfortable silence, Cas suddenly blurts out, "My sister's gone for you, you know."

Dean starts. "Is she, now? She doesn't even know me." His choice of words makes him wince, and he quickly adds, "Not like you do."

Cas's resulting tiny gasp and slight blush are worth it. "I… guess she doesn't have to," he says finally.

Dean sends him a sideways glance, sees how tightly his arms are wrapped around his burden. "Here, lemme carry your books."

"Oh—thank you," Castiel says and gratefully hands them over.

"Sure."

Cas bites his lip, smiling softly. "But yes, she is. It's all she ever talks about. She, uh, she calls you a—" Cas makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers—"a 'real flutter bum.'"

"Ha!" Dean snorts, flattered despite himself.

Castiel's reluctant smile widens. "Or a 'dreamboat.'"

"You're kidding," Dean grins, mildly proud of himself.

Cas shakes his head. "If only. Her words, not mine."

Dean sighs. "And what, you're expectin' me to do somethin' about it?"

"Well, I don't know," Cas says seriously. "That's up to you. But I hardly think it's fair to let her pine—"

Dean waves a book-free hand in the air, silencing him. "She's a fly Dolly, alright, but no, Cas, I could never. I got too much respect for your family." In a twisted way, it's true.

"Oh," Cas mouths.

Dean sends him a wink and a smirk, two meanings each. "Well, most of your family, anyway."

Castiel's eyebrows crease minutely in half-realisation. "…oh."

The sun continues to set, and Dean sees Cas shiver. "Hey, you cold?"

Cas shakes his head. "No," he says hastily, but his lips tremble with chill and Dean can tell he's lying.

Dean sighs and extends the books to Cas, who takes them confusedly and watches with wide eyes as Dean shrugs out of his jacket. "Okay, I'll tradeja," Dean says, holding the jacket out to Cas.

"I—Dean," Castiel frowns. "Won't you get cold?"

"Nah," Dean says brightly. "Take the damn jacket, Cas. I don't want to be held responsible if you catch cold. Now come on."

Cas sighs, feigning exasperation as he grudgingly slips the jacket on, but he can't hide the quiet "ah" of relief he breathes out as Dean's leftover warmth that clings to the leather seeps into him. Dean grins at seeing slim little Cas swaddled in the bulky, worn thing, and takes the books back. "Thank you, Dean," Cas says breathily, pulling the jacket closed around his narrow shoulders.

"Sure thing, Boston," Dean says with an easy grin.

Cas frowns. "That isn't my name, Dean," he says, too-serious, and Dean laughs.

"Yeah, baby, I know. I just—"

"And I am no child," Cas says defensively. "You keep referring to me as an infant, when I—"

"It's a nickname!" Dean interrupts, still laughing. "Boston, 'cause you're from there. And baby—well." He drops his gaze, grinning at his shoes. "Just a pet name. Means I like you."

Cas is silent momentarily. "I like you, too, Dean," he eventually says with a small smile and Dean's chest clenches and he has to try very hard to remind himself that Castiel means _as a friend_, of course. Of course he doesn't share Dean's penchant. He can't. Boy from a good God-fearin', Bible-thumpin' family? Never.

They're silent for a few minutes, and then Castiel smiles impishly and says, "So if you call me Boston, does that mean I should call you Lawrence?"

Dean barks out a startled laugh. "I s'pose. I've been called 'Kansas' before, so…"

"I'll call you Lawrence," Cas says with a nod, and then frowns. "But isn't that bizarre? Calling someone something that isn't their name?"

Dean sighs. "That's how nicknames work, Cas. It's like… I don't know, making someone a little more yours." He bites his lip because of his word choice, but when he glances over at Cas, the other boy's expression is blank.

They're finally at Cas's house, and the boys turn to face each other.

_This is it_, Dean thinks. _This is when, if Cas were a girl, the goodnight kiss would happen. I would lick my lips and she'd blush and look up at me through her eyelashes and I'd brush her hair from her face and lean in and kiss her, soft and sweet, and she'd be warm and pliant and my hands would move down, rest on the velvet curves of her hips and keep her there for just a second or two after our mouths would part. We'd just breathe each other's air, and she'd smile, and I'd let her go and whisper "good night" and she would walk up to her house and wave and blush at me over her shoulder and then I'd leave and never see her again._

For a heartstopping moment, Dean pictures doing all that with Cas. Hearing the tiny gasp as their lips meet. Feeling the warmth pulsing under his skin, under his cardigan. Tasting the bubblegum flavour of his mouth, knowing the pink slip of his tongue, revelling in the scrape of dusty stubble against Dean's own.

And he can see the flutter of Cas's eyes, the tiny twitch and tremble of his mouth, can hear the quiet intake of breath—

And then Dean remembers that they're in front of Castiel's house, that Michael and Lucifer could be 50 feet away. He takes a step back and stiffly hands Cas his books. Cas takes them, slips out of Dean's jacket, and smiles.

"Thank you for walking me home, Dean," he says softly and hands it to Dean. Dean takes it and snatches his hand away before their fingers can brush.

"Any time," Dean says with a grin, slinging his jacket over one shoulder.

Cas bites his lip. "Well… good night."

"Night." Cas starts to walk away, but Dean decides Hell with it and quietly calls, "Cas?"

Cas instantly turns back. "Yes?"

Dean shifts awkwardly. "Look, what I said the other day—about you not knowing me—I'm—"

Castiel just smiles. "Dean, it's fine."

"Hey, I ain't apologisin'," Dean grins and then ducks his head. "No, I—I think I was wrong. I think… I think you do." He glances anxiously up at Cas again.

Cas flushes and smiles. "I—okay," he says breathily. "Good night, Dean."

Dean watches him go up the stairs to his door, and the way he feels when Cas looks back at him over his shoulder and smiles is better than any goodnight kiss he's ever had.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Dullsville: boring_

_Bunk habit: the practice of lying around in opium dens; more generally, just doin' drugs_

_Spaced out: high on drugs_

_Vibes: a person's "aura"_

_Barbecue: eeeeyyyyy sexy lady_

_Turf: territory_

_Dicey: risky_

_Goof: to mess up_

_Gone for you: in love with you_

_Flutter bum: cute boy_

_Dreamboat: also a cute boy_

_Fly Dolly: cool girl_


	8. Venus

_HellO!_

_Friends, I am getting slightly paranoid: I realise that for all y'all, four days is a very long time indeed (I'm really sorry about that, by the way!), but seeing as how I don't have this story completed or even fully typed up (I write by hand in a writing notebook first, then type it up and edit etc), it's not very long at all. Currently, I'm almost done writing chapter 10, but I'm not even fully typed up with 9 yet. Ack. This means I need to work very very hard to keep my lovelies happy._

_With that said, work is going very, very well! Plots are developing, and things are happening._

_This chapter features song lyrics. NONE OF THEM BELONG TO ME. However, the songs referenced are pretty fantastic and I suggest you look them up for ambience's sake._

_Slang dictionary at the bottom!_

_Please let me know, in any format, what you thought of this story or chapter. I love feedback of any sort!_

_And with that, I leave you._

_Enjoy chapter 8, and I'll see you again in four days!_

* * *

Sam is being morose, and Dean and Cas are both politely pretending to listen.

"—so then, I walked up to her, and I opened my mouth and thought, 'this is it,' and… the words just wouldn't come," he says miserably. "She just looked at me like I was a total dingaling and walked off with her friend." Sam sighs. "She'n'Brady broke up last week, so I thought I had a chance, but I just don't know how to talk to girls. 'Specially her."

Dean and Cas make commiserative sounds, and Sam suddenly brightens.

"Hey, Cas!" he says excitedly. "You could help me. You know about girls."

Cas turns red and stammers out "What?" as Dean scoffs.

"Yeah, you do," Sam presses. "Meg!"

Dean frowns, blood running cold. "What about her?"

Sam snickers, oblivious to Dean's distress. "Gutsy broad—walked up to 'im at school and asked him to the movies."

Dean's mouth dries and he feels ill. "Oh, really," he says coldly, glancing at Cas in the rearview mirror. Cas quickly looks away. "Did she, now. What'd you answer, Cas?"

"…I said yes," comes the quiet, mild reply. "I didn't really have much of a choice—she's pretty intimidating."

Dean laughs humourlessly. "Yeah, she is that. Well, peachy for you, Cas," he replies. "Enjoy her while you can."

Heat rises in Castiel's cheeks and he nods, drawing back into himself a little.

"So how does that help you, Sammy?" Dean asks, eyes cold and flat. "The situation's not exactly the same."

Sam shrugs. "Well, since Cas knows how to deal with—"

"I h-hardly k-_know_," Cas refutes quietly. "All-l-I had t-t-to do w-was say yes."

"Oh," Sam frowns. "Well, how'd she do it, at least?"

Castiel opens his mouth to answer, but Dean cuts him off: "Look, Sam, it ain't rocket science. Y'march up, say hello, ask her to the movies. No fancy words, no love poems or flowers. Just do it and quit whinin'."

Sam stares at Dean disapprovingly. "What's wrong with you today?"

Dean scowls. "Nothing," he snaps, decidedly not looking at Cas. "Haven't had a cigarette today yet. Leave me alone." He fumbles inside his jacket and, in a way he fancies as aggressive, takes one out and lights it.

Sam is about to say something, and then Dean blows his first full lungful of smoke at him, making him splutter and scramble to roll down his window. "Drop dead twice, Dean," Sam grumbles.

"What, and look like you?" Dean retorts, and tiny smiles twitch up at the corners of both brothers' mouths, bad moods involuntarily fading.

Cas doesn't say anything for the rest of the drive to school.

* * *

The date itself is a week later, and the next morning, Cas looks exactly the same as he always does.

He gets into the car, and Sam instantly beams at him and excitedly asks, "Sooooo. How late were you out last night?"

Cas frowns. "Uh—n-not much l-l-later than-n-n-usual."

"But how _was_ it?" Sam pries, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, Cas," he says sourly. "Vomit on the table—was it a fake out or a make out?"

"Um—I'm not—"

Dean huffs. "Did you have fun?" he clarifies flatly.

Cas drops his eyes. "I—I suppose it was nice enough…"

"Are you gonna see her again?" Sam demands, and Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"…w-we made p-p-plans to g-go d-dancing next week," Cas admits shyly, and Sam's grin only widens. Cas meets Dean's eyes in the mirror and bites his lip and sighs. "Thing is, I don't know how," he says levelly.

Dean's eyes spark: that's an invitation if he's ever heard one. "I do," he offers casually. "If you need to be taught, it's no trouble."

Castiel's cheeks flush and he nods, eyes finally darting away.

* * *

They set a day for the "lesson." Michael, Lucifer, Emmanuel, and Eve are all at a business dinner. Anna is spending the night at a friend's house, and therefore the only people home are Gabriel and Cas.

Dean shows up at five-thirty on the dot, nervous despite himself. But when Castiel opens the door and smiles this bashful yet blinding smile, blue eyes soft, something inside Dean melts and he's not nervous anymore.

He hasn't ever been in this part of the Milton residence—the living room is wide and well-lit, with a few potted flowers throughout. Although it's obvious that it has been styled to look cheery and welcoming, it mostly just seems fake and lonely.

Gabriel walks past and sends an amiable, careless wave Dean's way. "Hey, Dean-o," he says suddenly, and Dean starts, having never spoken to him before. "I was talkin' to a couple cats named Harry and Ed and they mentioned ya. Y'know them?"

Dean snorts. "Sure do. Yeah, I know roundabout every greaser in Lawrence. Why, what about them?"

"Oh, nothing," Gabriel says innocently. "They just said a couple interesting things about you, is all." With an enigmatic smile, he says "See ya" and vanishes into his room.

Dean just raises an eyebrow.

"I wonder what he meant," Cas muses, frowning.

"No idea," Dean lies and turns to Cas. "Well, let's start, then. You got any music?"

"My sister might… Wait here," Cas orders, and, after Dean nods, leaves.

* * *

Castiel has never liked going into his siblings' rooms.

Anna's is no exception.

Hers is just as neat as Castiel's, but in a more feminine way: everything is in little drawers or containers, mostly unlabelled, so it takes him a while to find his sister's record collection. Once he does, he selects one at random and quickly returns back to the front room, where Dean is standing as though he hasn't moved a muscle since Cas left.

He looks so incongruous in the Miltons' living room—messy hair and worn-out leather and tight jaw, all surrounded by pastels and frilly curtains—that Castiel can't help but laugh.

"What?" Dean says defensively, and Cas just smiles.

"Nothing, Dean." He drifts through the kitchen and asks, "Would you like something to drink?"

Dean looks startled. "Uh—I think I'm alright. Thanks."

"Didn't think you would…" Castiel walks over to the record player, but Dean beats him to it, gently taking the record from his hands and scanning through the song titles.

He grins. "Start with track three," Dean advises and gives the record back.

Castiel nods, sets the record in the player, adjusts it to track three, starts it, and stands back by Dean's side as music begins to play.

Dean hums along for a few bars, and then unattaches his thumbs from his belt loops and clears his throat. "Face me, Cas. Right hand out."

Castiel's heart begins to pound in rhythm with the song. "O-okay." He does, and then Dean leans in, hooking Cas's right hand with his left, and places his other hand on Cas's waist, closer to the small of his back than anything.

"And now you—I mean, _she'll_—put her hand up on your shoulder—just like this—" Dean releases Castiel's waist to grab his other hand and move it around to curl up to Dean's shoulder from his back. Then Dean returns his hand to Cas's waist, and Castiel is having a little trouble breathing because of Dean's intoxicating proximity.

"Got it—"

"And now we dance," Dean murmurs, tightening his hand in Cas's. "You step back, kind of rocking like this—no, me with my left, you with your right, and then kinda step forward, just like this—"

And they dance, Castiel holding desperately onto Dean, stiff and afraid when Dean spins him. But Dean brings him back every time, crooning along with the music and breathing encouraging words to Cas, telling him each step and turn.

"_Oh, well, there's Flo on my left and there's Mary on my right_

_And Janie is the girl, well, that I'll be with tonight_

_And when she asks me, which one I love the best_

_I tear open my shirt, I show her Rosie on my chest_

_'Cause I'm the wanderer_

_Yeah, the wanderer_

_I roam around, around, around…_"

Eventually, Castiel begins to loosen up, moving a little easier with Dean, sensing some of his movements before he makes them.

"_Yeah, I shoulda known it from the very start_

_This girl'll leave you with a broken heart-ah_

_A-listen', people, what I'm tellin' you, I say-ah_

_A-keep away from 'Runaround Sue'—_"

He grows more comfortable with the turns and the pace of some of the songs, clinging desperate and breathless to Dean, mouth permanently twitched into a smile and a giggle perched on his tongue as they whirl.

"_Each night, I hope and pray_

_A dream lover will come my way_

_Yeah, a girl to hold in my arms_

_And know the magic of her charms_

_Because I want a—yeah, a girl to call m-my own_

_I want a dream lover so I don't have to dream alone…_"

They come upon one of the slower songs of the record, and Dean draws Castiel in close, and they just sway on the spot, almost cheek-to-cheek, quietly spinning there, soft and warm.

Castiel closes his eyes and lets Dean burn into him, feels the safety of those strong arms holding him close, and releases a quiet, shaky breath, almost dizzy with how right this feels, being here like this—Castiel and Dean, Soc and greaser, bubblegum and cigarettes. Spinning and at peace.

The song changes, far too quickly for Cas's tastes, and he feels Dean sigh and then pull away, resuming their previous position.

"_He sits in a treetop all day long_

_Hoppin' and a-boppin' and singin' his song_

_All the little birds on Jaybird street_

_Love to hear the robin go 'tweet, tweet, tweet'_

_Rockin' Robin…_"

Dean grins. "Okay, baby, we're gonna try somethin' new."

Castiel regards him warily. His last couple of experiments (including an inexplicable twirl called a "Texas Tommy" which left Castiel dizzy and not just because of Dean) hadn't gone all too well. But, unable to resist the pleading sparkle in Dean's eyes (not to mention the pet name that still makes his knees go a little weak, no matter how many times Dean uses it), he sighs and nods.

"So you can only do this after a little while of dancing, after she's warmed up to you a bit," Dean begins to explain, and Cas makes a face, having temporarily and blissfully forgotten all about Meg. "So first you spin her—and bring her back—and then—hold tight, Boston—then you dip her—"

Cas emits a faint squeak, clutching on to Dean for dear life, but the cage of Dean's arms around him is so strong, and his eyes are so warm as he looks down at Cas with an unreadable expression, that Castiel breathes out a tiny "ah" as he gazes up, heart about to beat out of his chest.

"And then, if you want," Dean continues, voice low, "then—you kiss her."

Castiel shivers, eyes at first locked to Dean's and then darting down to his mouth. He licks his lips involuntarily, and can barely breathe as he sees the pupils of Dean's eyes flare just a little wider. "I—I—I'm not sure if I want to kiss her," he admits, voice tiny and anxious, eyes huge.

"So don't," Dean says coolly and bends back up, bringing Cas up to a normal, standing position, and releases him. The record spins to its end, filling the room with white noise. Castiel switches it off, eyes fixed on Dean, who has turned away. The room fills with a stony silence, and Cas bites his lip in dismay.

"What's wrong?" he asks falteringly.

"Nothing," comes the gruff reply.

Castiel sighs. "Dean…"

"I said, _nothing_."

"But—" Cas suddenly has an idea, and it makes a few different emotions twist inside of him. "Is it Meg?" he asks softly, and the twitch of Dean's shoulders is all the answers Castiel needs. "You don't like her. You don't like that I'm seeing her." It's not a question. Dean turns around, a frown creasing his eyebrows.

"I never said—"

"Why don't you like her, Dean?" Cas demands, and he's not quite sure why he's so emotional about this—_he_ doesn't even like Meg that much.

"Because I know her," Dean answers flatly, squarely facing Castiel.

"I thought you said you know all the… greasers," Cas points out, noticing how Dean's hands are trembling.

"I do," Dean confirms with a grave nod, "and I wouldn't 'pprove of you bein' jacketed with any of them."

Suddenly, Castiel is furious, and he's gasping, "_You_ wouldn't approve—what right do _you_ have t—"

"I just don't think she's good for you, is all," Dean shrugs calmly. "She ain't right."

Cas huffs, arms crossing. "Then who is?"

After a deep pause, Dean sighs and says, "I don't think anyone is. You're too… extraordinary." He coughs and glances away. "D'you mind if I smoke?"

He's never asked Castiel for permission before, and Cas senses that this question bears far greater importance than Dean simply being polite because he's a stranger in this house.

Mind still reeling from Dean's statement, Cas just shakes his head. "I don't mind," he rasps, mouth dry and pulse irregular. "But—you have to go outside so my family won't smell the smoke—"

Dean nods and jams his hands in his pockets, easy manner from earlier lost. "I can just go," he offers sheepishly. "I think you're all set with the dancing—"

"Don't," Castiel interrupts, almost pleading, and takes a tiny, involuntary step closer to Dean. "I'll—I can sit out on the porch with you…" Suddenly shy again, he drops his eyes and scuffs one foot along the floor. "If you'd like, that is," he adds softly.

Dean's lips twitch, and he is clearly trying to conceal a smile. "Yeah, Cas. I would like."

Castiel leads him out to the front of the house and Dean delightedly sits on the porch swing, already clamping a cigarette in his mouth. He sees Cas just standing awkwardly off to the side and raises and eyebrow. "Well, c'mere, kid."

Castiel blushes and perches next to him, making the bench swing back a little, thereby sending Cas even closer to Dean.

Dean lights up and lets out a smoke-filled sigh, head falling back and eyes closing. "You're a good dancer," he murmurs. "And a real fast learner."

Cas's blush only deepens. "I had a great teacher," he says, shockingly bold, and is internally amazed by his own coquetry.

Dean laughs, curling smoke into the air. "Oh, you flatter me," he says with a smile. "I just hope your date 'ppreciates you as much as I do." He suddenly falls silent, taking a long, uneasy drag at his cigarette.

His word choice doesn't go unnoticed on Castiel, who bites his lip and gives a small, shaky smile. "Um, Dean?"

"Yeah, baby?"

Cas looks very intently at his hands. "Uh, well, see, I don't really have a way to get to the—"

"You need a ride?" Dean asks with a grin, eyes sliding open to sparkle at the other boy. "Sure, Cas, I can drive you if you'd like me to."

"Really?" Castiel breathes, smiling wide, a little bit of his anxiety about the date fading. "Thank you—so much—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Dean mumbles around his cigarette, but he's smiling. "Any time, kid." He turns his head and looks straight at Cas. "That's what friends are for, right?"

And suddenly, they're both moving in close, too close, Castiel's hand fluttering to twist at Dean's collar, Dean's cigarette dropping from his suddenly slack fingers as he zeroes in on Cas, and Cas thinks _to Hell with Father and the Bible_, and Dean thinks _but Cas isn't Benny or Nick, and he's not Sam's, he's __**mine**_, and they're far too close now, breaths coming quick and shallow, and Dean is just about to tip his head a little lower and catch that pretty mouth in his own—

Cas shoves Dean away, but before Dean's eyes can flood with hurt, he gasps, "I hear a car—it's probably my family—"

His hands are still tightly fisted in Dean's shirt, reluctant to let go despite his words, and Dean considers kissing him hard and fast and messy, quickly before he runs, but the car is getting louder and he thinks that Castiel's first kiss should be tender and slow. So he just nods, stands, ruffles Cas's hair, and says, "Bye, Cas—see ya tomorrow—" before running off to the alley behind the Milton house where his car is parked.

All Cas can do is stare dreamily after him and sigh, touching a hand to his lips, which are tingling even though nothing happened.

That is, before his parents and brothers pull up and Castiel has to remember to smooth his hair down and kick the remnants of Dean's cigarette through the spaces in the wooden slats of the porch and think of which neighbor he can blame for the smell of smoke.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Dingaling: a stupid person_

_Broad: girl, usually of the greaser variety_

_Drop dead twice/What, and look like you?: just a silly set of trash talk. Just because I couldn't have any version of the Winchester boys without giving them a jerk/bitch kinda deal._

_Vomit on the table: speak up_

_Fake out: bad date_

_To be jacketed: to go steady with someone_


	9. Take Good Care of my Baby

_Heeeeyyyy._

_OKAY SO HOW COME NO ONE NOTICED THAT I USED THE TITLE IN THE LAST CHAPTER im not sure if this means i did a good job or a bad job bUT YES I SAID THE THING OKAY "BUBBLEGUM AND CIGARETTES" HAS BEEN SAID i dare you to go look for it you'll get five points if you find it_

_So, uh, don't panic, but I don't have chapter 10 typed up. At all. I literally finished typing this one yesterday._

_And chapter 11 isn't even started._

_So... uh... it's highly possible the next chapter will be up in slightly more than four days. I- I'm really, really sorry. I hope you can forgive me..._

_The GOOD NEWS: we're sloooowly getting closer to the end. Slowly. The dominoes are falling._

_Also, even though no one has asked: the reason there's been less slang is because Dean knows Castiel doesn't understand it and is trying to be more comprehensible to him. Wheeeeee._

_ANyway, this chapter... well, you'll see, I guess. Wink wonk._

_So, slang dictionary at the bottom!_

_And please, please, please review in some format or another to let me know what you thought. Who knows, your review might just be the thing that pushes me to write faster!_

_And with that, please enjoy chapter 9._

* * *

Dean shows up at Castiel's front door at six, looking clean-shaven and slightly better-dressed than usual. Upon seeing Cas's raised eyebrow and slightly parted lips, Dean colours faintly and jams his hands in his pockets and snaps, "Well, since we're goin' to one of the classiest joints in uptown, I figured I'd dress up a bit."

Castiel tries and fails to conceal his smile. "No, Dean, you look very handsome," he says seriously, and Dean blushes again, all the way up to his freckles.

"Come on, then," he mumbles, retrieving a cigarette and lighting it. Cas smiles at him again, locks the door behind him, and follows him down the walkway to the Chrysler. "You do, too, by the way," Dean says, words too quick and voice low. "Look… handsome, I mean."

Cas bites his lip and tugs at his collar, sending Dean a sideways look that is almost coy. "Thank you," he says softly, smiling and feeling his cheeks heat up.

Dean walks Castiel to the passenger side of the car and opens it for him. And after he joins him inside on the left, he jerks his thumb at the back seat and starts the car. "I brought flowers," he says awkwardly. "Uh—girls seem to like them, so I thought you might give them to… Meg…"

Cas's stomach twists unpleasantly, having forgotten for a mad second all about Meg. It had almost seemed as though he was going on a date with Dean, what with the mutual compliments, door-opening, flowers, the look Dean is giving him just now… He blinks and clears his throat. "Thank you," he repeats hastily, reaching into the back to get them. "I'm… sure she'll love them."

They're quiet for the rest of the drive, sending brief glances at each other every now and then but not really speaking.

Once the Chrysler pulls into the dance hall's parking lot, Castiel's insides are a knot of anxiety, and Dean evidently senses this, because he sends Cas a reassuring smile. "You'll be great," he says, husky voice warm. "Just remember all I taught you and she'll love ya."

_But that's what I'm worried about!_ Cas almost wants to scream. Instead, he just nods. "Thank you, Dean."

Dean's smile almost gains an element of pity. "Let's go."

Meg is waiting just inside the front doors. When she sees Cas, her cheeks flush slightly red, and Castiel can feel Dean tense by his side. "Hi," she says breathlessly when they get close. "Gee, Cas, you sure look boss. What took you so long?"

"Traffic," Dean lies flatly, and Meg's eyes snap to him and narrow.

"Hi, Dean."

"Meg."

She practically sneers. "What are you doin' here? Acting like Cas's keeper…"

Castiel can see Dean's jaw clench. "Just drove him here," Dean says coolly.

"And all chrome-plated, too!" she observes with a mean, delighted laugh. "You hopin' to get a little lucky tonight, hmm? Since you don't have Lisa to—"

"That's enough," Dean snaps. He looks at Cas and talks directly to him. "Stay out as long as you want, I don't got anywhere to be."

Castiel nods. "Thank you," he says once more, and Dean smiles in a way that's almost sad and leaves them.

Meg and Cas stand in silence for a few seconds, and then she points to the flowers hanging limply in his hand and asks, "Ooh, are those for me?"

Castiel looks at them in surprise, almost having forgotten they were there. "Oh—y-yes," he mumbles and holds them out to her.

She giggles and takes them. "Thank you!" she says, bright and pretty and insincere, and grabs his hand. "Now let's dance!"

Meg drags Cas out onto the dance floor, dumps her flowers and purse onto a chair, and sends Dean—who is leaning on the doorframe of one of the exits—a vindictive look. As soon as they get out there, a new, fast song begins to play, and Castiel takes a deep breath, Dean's voice running through his head—_right hand out… she'll put her hand up on your shoulder_—and extends his left hand. Meg takes it with her right, and after another flashback to Dean's instructions, Cas gingerly places his free hand on her waist. Inexplicably, she giggles and clamps onto him tight.

And after another deep breath and tiny glance at Dean, Cas resigns himself and they dance. There are a few missteps, of course, but Cas has Dean's voice like a mantra in his mind—_left foot right_ _foot shuffle spin out rock step spin in left foot_—and slowly begins to get into a smooth rhythm. He can't get over how _weird _it is to not be dancing with Dean. Meg is petite and soft and moves differently—her skirts swish against Cas's legs when she spin in, and it throws him off sometimes.

Dancing is incredibly tiring.

After an indeterminately long amount of time, Meg detaches herself from Castiel, giggles, says, "I have to go fix my hair—will you get me some punch?", and scurries away, skirts bouncing prettily.

Castiel sighs in relief, allows his shoulders to slouch, and goes over to the refreshment table. Remembering Dean, he pours three small cups and downs his own instantly. It's sticky-sweet, and he grimaces as he carries the other two over to where Dean is still standing.

There's a girl leaning next to him, and just as Cas is walking up, she turns to Dean. "Are you going to ask me to dance or not?" she snaps.

Dean blinks. "No," he says coolly.

She huffs. "Then why are you here?"

"Not to dance."

She sends him a nasty look and storms away.

Dean sees Cas waiting there and laughs. "Hey, Cas. You having' fun?"

"I brought you some punch," Castiel says weakly, avoiding the question, and extends out the cup. Dean takes it and sends Cas a grateful smile.

"Thanks." He drinks and pulls a face. "That's foul."

Cas cracks a smile. "Sorry."

Dean drains the rest. "So are you having fun?" he presses, setting the cup down.

Castiel drops his eyes. "I guess..."

"Because you're doin' a great job."

"Really?" Cas asks, brightening and meeting Dean's gaze again.

Dean nods. "Mhm. I taughtcha well."

Castiel smiles. "You sure did," he agrees softly.

Dean is about to say something when the music changes and Cas feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and there's a pretty girl whom he doesn't recognize holding her hands out to him.

"Wanna dance?" she asks brightly.

Castiel raises an eyebrow and looks back at Dean, who sighs and takes the other cup of punch out of his hand, gesturing to the dance floor. Cas looks at the girl again. "S-sure," he says uncertainly.

She giggles and pulls him by the hands onto the floor. "So come on, snake, let's rattle!" she enthuses. He sighs and doesn't resist.

The song is not too fast, so she gets the chance to talk to him. "I'm Bela," she says and smiles. "Bela Talbot. You're a Milton, right?"

Mildly unsettled by her knowledge, Cas nods. "C-Castiel."

"Mmm. I know your brother Gabe. And I think I've seen you around at school," she continues.

Cas makes a humming sound of acknowledgement, and Bela obviously takes this as a sign to keep talking.

"Your folks should come over some time—my momma makes a great meatloaf—and it'd be a good way to get to know more folks in Lawrence—was that Dean Winchester you were talking to earlier?"

The non-sequitur makes Cas snap to attention. "Uh—y-yes?"

Bela wrinkles her nose. "Whyyy?"

Before Castiel can frown and say "because he's my friend," Bela has continued:

"What's he doing here, anyway? I didn't know he even had the dough to get in—and how did that ugly thing he calls a car make it to here from the part of town he lives in?—"

"Um—"

"I heard he knocked up Lisa Braeden and made her, y'know, get rid of the baby," Bela goes on in a low, harsh whisper. "And wasn't he in the can for knifing the mayor's son?_And _I heard he likes boys in the same way as girls, and everybody knows he carries a cooler on him all the time—"

Castiel's eyes flash, his stomach twists, and the song ends. He drops Bela's hand and waist as if burned. "He's here because he's my friend," he says, voice strong and furious and powerfully stammer-free. "He's here because I asked him to be. He's here with me, _Miss Talbot_, and I'll thank you not to spread base rumours about my _friend_."

She blinks meekly and shrinks back in on herself. "I—uh—sorry?"

He'd love to say "No, you're not" and stride away with his head held high, but the strength he had is fading and he doubts he'd be able to say another well-articulated sentence to this girl again. So he just clenches his jaw proudly and nods before making his way back over to Dean.

Dean smiles at him, and Cas smiles right back and plucks the cup of punch out of his hand. "Who was she?" Dean asks.

"No one important," Castiel answers breezily, smile widening, and then Meg comes back, hair looking exactly the same.

"Hi, Cas," she croons, taking the cup from him. "Sorry that took so long. Didja miss me?" Cas chokes slightly, but before he can muster up a lie, he is saved by the changing of the music.

"I love this song!" Meg squeals, thrusting her now-empty cup of punch at Dean, who takes it with distaste, and grabs Cas's hands to drag him back out onto the floor.

Cas sends a miserable look over his shoulder at Dean, but Dean's attention is elsewhere, green eyes narrowed at the other whirling couples. And so, without any support or encouragement, Castiel goes out to dance.

The song is very fast, but Meg has no trouble keeping up as Cas spins her in and out, out and in. She giggles delightedly every time he brings her back and grabs at him as though drowning, but all Castiel can think about is Dean.

Dean twirling him like this, strong arms controlling Cas's every movement. Large, deft hands keeping Cas steady and protected as the two boys bopped and shuffled. Eyes with dusty-gold lashes twinkling down at him and leaving him breathless as a low, musical voice with a hint of honeyed twang reassures him. Calls him "baby."

_First you spin her_—_and bring her back_—_and then_—_then you dip her_— Meg looks up at Cas from the position he's holding her in, bats her eyelashes, bites her lip with sharp little teeth.

_And then, if you want_—

Castiel's eyebrows crease minutely as gears begin to turn in his head.

_Then_—

Meg sighs in Cas's arms, soft and warm, and he can feel her pulse, but it all feels so wrong, somehow.

_You kiss her_.

It finally hits him, and it feels like a physical blow. His knees weaken and he quickly returns Meg to a standing position. She looks disappointed, but he can't bring himself to care.

Because he's just realised.

And he can't believe it took him this long.

And now that he has this knowledge, he still doesn't know what to do with it, but—

He's in love with Dean Winchester.

Castiel Milton is in _love _with _Dean Winchester_.

That explains everything. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the constant thoughts and dreams, the fire that sweeps through him at every light touch. The way he never stutters when talking to Dean—at first he couldn't explain it before, but now he can.

It's love.

Cas has read about it. Heard songs about it. Put up with Anna's sighing about it. But actually feeling it and naming it is unlike anything he's ever known.

His entire body trembles and, oddly enough, he feels sick and on the verge of tears and also about to break into song.

Meg evidently thinks he's upset, because she places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Cas, honey? You alright?"

"Hm? Oh—" He turns around to face her again, trying to control his emotions, and takes a deep breath. "Y-yes, I'm f-f-fine—Meg, I-I thin-think we should—s-st-stop seeing each-ch-other…"

"What?" she shrieks, jerking away from him. "You can't be serious!"

He winces. "S-sorry—"

Meg's lower lip trembles. "Well, it was fun while it lasted, I guess," she says bravely. "You're—you're too much of a square to have kept me company long, anyway—" She sniffs, nods, and whirls away to vanish into the crowd of dancers.

Cas watches her go with a small, pitying chuckle, sighs, and makes his way over to a very clearly bored Dean. Dean is still looking out at the floor, and to get his attention, Castiel places a hand on the crook of his elbow. "Dean," he says softly, and Dean starts and looks down at him.

And _wow_, Castiel has never paid this much attention to facial expressions. To be honest, he's kind of glad, because this is almost verging on painful.

At first, Dean's eyes are startled, but when he sees it's Cas, they soften and crinkle at the corners and knock the breath out of the other boy, leaving him wordless.

"Yeah, baby?"

If Cas were Anna, Cas thinks, this would be where he would swoon.

Instead he just blushes and looks at his shoes. "Meg and I are calling it a night, so…"

Dean practically beams. "Peachy. Let's cut."

Cas doesn't even look back as he follows Dean out.

When they're back in the car and on the road, Cas bites his lip shyly and says, "And… I told her we should stop seeing each other like this."

Dean's eyes widen. "Seriously?" he asks, smile going megawatt.

Castiel nods. "Yes. I—I realised my affections lie elsewhere," he confesses delicately, anxious pulse roaring in his ears.

Dean's smile falters and his eyes lock onto the road. "Huh," he says hollowly and turns the radio on.

Cas frowns. That wasn't how that was supposed to go—Dean was supposed to suck in a quiet gasp as he realised it was him, and then send Cas that _look _that would make Cas tremble, and then, just maybe, he'd stop the car and lean over and—

Castiel suddenly blushes and looks away, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window.

They don't talk for the rest of the drive back to the Miltons'.

Dean doesn't get out of the car to walk Cas to his door this time. He just deposits Cas by the walkway and, after an exchange of thank-you-you're-welcome-good-night-good-night, drives away, leaving Castiel to suffer through a sleepless night of wondering what he did wrong.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Boss: great_

_Keeper: parent_

_Chrome-plated: dressed up_

_Come on, snake, let's rattle!: let's dance_

_Can: jail_

_Cooler: gun_

_Cut: leave_


	10. Teenager in Love

_Gosh, you're all so kind..._

_Thank you SO much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited, followed (or followed me on tumblr, uwaaa!)._

_Ha, five points to everyone who promptly left reviews saying "I NOTICED!" Good for you. Thank you all very, very much._

_So, uh, this chapter!_

_I HAD TO DO SO MUCH RESEARCH._

_This chapter knocks over the very first domino in the plot chain. After this, everything goes pretty fast. I estimate we have about four chapter left, maybe a little less._

_In this chapter, we meet Castiel's mother. Um, Dean and Cas and everyone aside, she was a character I really felt, and even got a little bit emotional writing her because of just how angelic she is. It was intense._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, because I haven't even started chapter 11, because I'm a horrible person._

_But four days isn't that short! I hope I'll be able to get it done on time for your next update._

_Please leave me a review or a comment in any format- be it on my tumblr or in any format here, I welcome feedback and thrive off it._

_With that, please enjoy chapter 10._

* * *

The next morning Castiel gets into the Chrysler, Dean and Sam are arguing.

"Man, I'm tellin' you, the Dodgers don't stand a chance!" Sam says with a scoff.

Dean snorts. "With Larry Sherry playin' for them? No, Sammy, they'll _pulverise _the White Sox. Heya, Cas."

"Hello, Dean—"

"But the White Sox have Early Wynn," Sam argues, "not to mention Luis what's-his-name—oh, yeah, hey, Cas."

"Hi, Sam—"

"Cas," Dean interrupts, "tell my imbecile of a brother that there is _no _way the Dodgers will lose the World Series this year."

Castiel shifts awkwardly. "I—uh—"

"I mean, _Sandy Koufax _is playing for them!"

"I don't actually know anything about baseball," Cas admits gingerly.

Dean grins. "Yeah, didn't figure you would."

"Gabriel is very excited about this game, though," Castiel adds.

"I'll bet he is…" Dean sighs. "Well, I'll just have to enjoy it best I can over the radio. Again."

"You don't have a television set?" Cas asks, genuinely surprised.

Dean and Sam both let out short, bitter laughs. "Cas, does it honestly look like we can afford a new idiot box?" Dean says wearily. "No, we don't have one. We don't even have four pairs of shoes 'tween the two of us anymore."

Cas bites his lip, harshly reminded of the social differences and injustices in Lawrence. He considers saying sorry, but knows that won't be received well. Instead, he shrugs and casually says, "We have one."

Dean nods. "Figured you would."

Suddenly emboldened, Cas goes on: "And if you'd like, you could—you could come over and—and watch the game at my—"

"You mean it?" Dean breathes, sitting straight up with his eyes flashing eagerly.

Cas smiles gently and nods. "Of course, Dean. And Sam, too—"

"Uh—Sammy doesn't like baseball," Dean blurts out. Sam scowls minutely at him, but after a wordless exchange, sighs and nods.

"I've never understood it," Sam explains falteringly. "Yeah, I don't like it much."

"So—just Dean, then?" Cas clarifies, and Dean beams.

"Gee whiz, Cas, thanks for the invite," he enthuses.

"It's no problem," Castiel says with a small smile. "We'd be glad to have you over."

Dean's smile suddenly freezes. "But—what about Michael and Lucifer?..."

"Oh!" Cas sits up straight, eyes bright with glee. "Father went on a business trip to Paris and took them with him. It's just Mother and Gabriel and Anna and me until the ninth."

"Paris…," Dean and Sam echo.

Castiel nods. "So they're not home."

"Peachy," Dean grins. "That's a nifty bit of luck. Thanks again—thanks, Cas."

"No problem," Cas repeats softly and has a warm, buzzing sort of glow inside of him for the rest of the day from the smile Dean sends him.

* * *

Castiel is hunched over the dinner table, his handwriting a tangled mess as he desperately tries to finish his essay before Dean gets there, when the doorbell rings.

His mother sees his head jerk up and hears his distressed whine, and smiles. She sets down her magazine and stands, gently stroking her youngest son's dark hair as she passes. "I'll open it, Castiel. Don't worry. You're almost done."

But before she even makes it out of the dining room, Anna's door wrenches open and the inhabitant of the space beyond whirls out.

"I'll get it," she says breathlessly, ignoring her mother's narrowed eyes as she tries to figure out if Anna is wearing makeup or not.

She swiftly opens the door, and Castiel leans back slightly to see the proceedings.

"Dean!" Anna bubbles delightedly, flushing red. Cas's heart flips over and up into his throat.

"Hi, Anna," Dean says, and Cas strains back further to catch a glimpse of him. This attempt doesn't work too well; his chair wobbles dangerously and he hastily sets it back down again. His pen flies across the paper faster than before, and even though his hand cramps into knots of pain, he scrawls out the final word of his essay's conclusion.

"Done!" he announced proudly, stands, and crosses to the door where Dean is.

Dean, of course, looks wonderful: shaved clean, quiffed, wavy hair shining brown-gold in the dusky light, lips hooked into a smile. His jeans are slightly less worn than all the others he usually wears, his shoes are clean, and his shirt fits well. Castiel's brain stutters as the green eyes glimmer, but he finally smiles back.

"Hello, Dean," he says softly.

"Hey, Cas," comes the equally soft reply.

Cas blushes, too, and quickly looks back at his patiently waiting mother. "Oh—I should—introduce you," he says, hasty and uncertain. "Mother, this is Dean Winchester. Dean, this is my mother, Eve."

Elegant and gracious as always, Eve steps forward and clasps Dean's hand in her own. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she says, voice almost a hum. "I've heard a lot about you."

Dean flushes a little and drops his eyes, a sheepish smile gracing his mouth. "L-likewise, ma'am."

"I'm sure," she smiles and releases his hand.

"And—uh, thank you so much for—for allowing me into your home," Dean adds hastily, cheeks going slightly redder.

Castiel frowns minutely and tilts his head in confusion. Is Dean being _shy_?

"You're very welcome here," Eve replies kindly, and Dean's eyes spark and fill with a distant sadness Cas doesn't recognize.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says again, and she smiles at him the way she does at all her children.

"Come on in," she urges, standing back slightly to he can enter. "Gabriel claims the game is starting soon."

Dean glances at his watch. "It is," he confirms, and then his eyes dart up to lock with Cas's. The simple meeting of green and blue seems to give him more confidence, because his posture straightens slightly, and as he walks past Cas into the living room, his hand moves up to lightly ruffle the dark hair Eve had just smoothed down. Castiel blushes fiercely, but neither Anna nor Eve notice his flustered state.

Gabriel barely even looks up as the four of them walk in. "Dean-o! Hey, long time no see."

"Sure has been," Dean confirms easily, but Cas can tell he's anxious again: his thumbs are hooked in his belt loops and his jaw is tensed.

Eve comes up behind him and places a gentle hand between his shoulderblades. He twitches in surprise, but doesn't shake her away. "Would you like something to drink, Dean?" she offers.

He bites his lip and shakes his head. "No—no, thank you very much, I—I'm fine," he declines politely, and Cas can't hold back a smile, because bashfulness suits Dean so well.

"If you change your mind, just let me know," Eve says with a smile, guiding Dean over to the sofa. He sits very close to the edge, and Anna instantly perches on the arm right next to him, sending him a glowing look. Castiel's insides clench with jealousy, but before he can go over and sit to Dean's right, Eve has said, "Castiel? Would you come to the kitchen with me and help pour Coca-Cola for your siblings, please?"

Dragging his eyes away from Dean, Castiel nods and follows her out.

They hear the TV click on and hiss in the other room, and as Castiel pours and Eve holds the glasses, Eve smiles and says, "He's very handsome."

Cas blushes scarlet, and his hand trembles on the bottle. How does Eve always know everything about how her children feel just by looking at them? "Y-yes," he admits quietly. "He is."

Eve sighs, looking down at the glasses in her hand. "What happened to his mother?" she asks gently.

Castiel blinks, frowning. "I—I've n-never asked…," he says hesitantly. "I d-don't kn-know. D-did s-something happen?"

"It's written all over his face," she confirms, eyes suddenly weary. She sets down the glasses and leans over to press a light kiss to her son's forehead. "He seems like a good boy."

Cas is about to smile wistfully and confirm this when there is a shout from Gabriel: "It's starting!"

Eve smiles at Castiel once more before taking two glasses and gracefully returning to the living room. Cas takes his own and trails after her. After handing Anna and Gabriel their glasses of Coca-Cola, she sits down in the armchair opposite Gabriel's. Cas is left awkward and uncertain for a few moments, and then Dean looks up at him and smiles and pats the bit of couch to his right. Cas smiles back, grateful and flustered, and goes to sit next to him.

The game starts, grainy little people running back and forth onscreen, but Castiel can't focus on it. Not when Dean's eyes are so alive they almost seem to radiate light; not when Cas can feel the heat emanating from him burning through Cas's cardigan. Every now and then, something that must be exceptionally exciting happens, and Dean sucks in amazed gasps and occasionally bites his lip in worried dismay when it falls through. He and Gabriel exchange amicable banter over the merits of the various players and explain baseball concepts when Eve or Cas asks.

After around an hour, the team Dean is rooting for is losing.

A commercial break arrives, and Dean lets out a shaky breath. "This is too much stress," he says, clearly only half-joking. "I—I might need to take a break to—to smoke…" His eyes dart uncertainly to Eve, and she nods graciously.

"You'll just have to go outside, dear," she says amiably, and Cas sees Dean tense and shiver.

"I know," he replies, standing up. She raises a questioning eyebrow but doesn't press the issue—which is a good thing, for Cas's insides had grown cold with sudden fear.

Eve stands, too. "Do you mind if I join you?" she enquires politely. "I need some fresh air, myself."

Dean's eyes widen. "Uh—no, I don't mind," he stammers, and she smiles at him and lets him lead the way out the front door to the porch.

Castiel watches them go, frowning as he remembers Eve's tone when she asked about Dean's mother. Cas had never even really given Dean's family beyond Sam too much thought, and he'd never considered that Dean might not have both parents with him. The novelty of being around someone as maternal as Eve must be what has Dean so uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

He's so lost in his thoughts of his brave, beautiful Dean growing up motherless and raising Sam himself that Gabriel's sudden cry of delight as the White Sox score another run makes him practically jump out of his seat.

Hypothetically speaking, he should find it easier to focus on the game now that Dean is out, but he can't anyway. He doesn't understand the rules or know the players, and without Dean's explanatory murmuring, he is lost and uninterested.

After what seems like an eternity, Dean and Eve come back.

With quiet shock, Castiel notices the rim of puffy red around Dean's eyes, but says nothing. When Dean settles on the couch next to him, Cas sends him the brightest smile he can, and the melancholy in Dean's eyes ebbs away a little.

Cas allows himself to move in as close to Dean's side as he dares without attracting too much attention—he's just a couple of inches away, and instead of focusing on the game, he fantasizes about Dean putting his arm around him and tugging him in close. This, of course, doesn't happen, and Castiel is left untouched and silently miserable.

The game ends.

Dean's team lost, and he looks so distressed that Cas can't help but chuckle and place a soothing hand on his shoulder. He's faintly surprised when Dean sighs and leans into the touch. "Don't worry, Lawrence," he says, voice so low only Dean can hear. "I'm sure they'll win tomorrow."

Dean smiles up at him, eyes wide and anxious. "So—I can come back?" he clarifies falteringly.

"Of course!" Cas indignantly says. His eyes dart to his mother. "Right?..."

"Of course," she echoes and smiles at the boys. "Would you like to stay for dinner, Dean?"

He freezes. "I'd—uh," he stammers. "I'd love to, ma'am, but I gotta—Sammy's—"

"Oh, that's right," she interrupts graciously. "Yes, you should help Sam tonight."

"Is he okay?" Castiel asks with a frown, shifting so he's facing Dean.

"Bit of a cold," Dean shrugs. "He's alright. I just gotta make him some soup or somethin'."

"Send him my regards," Castiel says with a soft smile.

"Will do, baby."

Castiel walks Dean to the door and they just smile at each other in the warm silence for a few seconds. Finally, Dean clears his throat and jams his hands in his pockets.

"So, uh, thanks," he says awkwardly, "for everything."

"No problem," Cas smiles, and Dean reaches out and just barely touches his face, backs of his fingers to Cas's cheek.

"See you tomorrow," he whispers, and then he's gone.

Castiel lets out a trembling sigh and closes the door behind him. Eve joins her son there and smiles gently.

"He's a lovely boy," she says quietly.

Cas bites his lip. "W-what _did _h-happen t-to his m-m-mother?" he questions.

Eve slumps slightly and gestures for Castiel to follow her into the living room. They sit next to each other on the couch, in the space that Dean had filled just a few minutes ago. Eve sighs and begins to speak softly:

"He told me everything. Incredible, how he opened up. See—his father, John, was a Marine. Right after Dean was born, he was called to fight in the War. Mary raised Dean on her own, and she did alright. A few years later, John had a week's leave and Sam was conceived. He was born when John was off fighting, and… when he was six months old, the Winchesters' house was robbed. By some people from downtown. Apparently, John had been a bit of a hoodlum in his youth, and had made his fair share of enemies. So they broke in, started ransacking the place—that's why they don't have a television anymore—and Mary tried to stop them." Eve takes a deep breath, lips trembling. "Dean came into the room to see what was wrong just as they killed her." Her voice breaks momentarily, but she goes on. "John came home two days later. He'd been badly wounded in the Battle of the Atlantic by flying shrapnel, and his right leg was completely paralyzed. He couldn't walk, not even if supported. His boys were inconsolable, both about Mary and his leg, but John grew bitter and couldn't be bothered. Dean had to raise Sam himself, with a little help from Bobby Singer. He managed to make it through freshman year, but then Sam started growing up and needing books for school and new clothes, so Dean dropped out of school to work full-time. And then he started associating with tougher gangs, but… he cleaned up, for Sam's sake. Doesn't fight anymore, doesn't get in trouble anymore. And… you know the rest!..."

There is a very pregnant silence, and then Castiel jumps up from the couch, eyes brimming with tears, and rushes off into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He hears his mother call after him, but he ignores her, burying his face in his pillow and sobbing himself to sleep.

* * *

Dean comes back every night the World Series is on. Castiel acts normally, as though he doesn't know anything new, but every time he looks at Dean, it _hurts_.

On the last night, after Dean's team has won, Cas all but begs Dean to stay for dinner.

And Dean accepts.

_…to be continued…_

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Idiot box: television set_


	11. Do You Love Me

_After procrastinating for four days, I managed to turn this chapter out in three hours._

_Wow._

_I'm SO glad all of you liked Eve. Ah. That made me really happy, that you all banded together in pity of Dean and admiration of Cas's badass mom._

_So, uh, welcome to the very first instance of real plot kicking in._

_After this chapter, everything goes pret-ty fast._

_I hope you like minor angst._

_Anyway, sorry for the wait!_

_Shoutout to myjamflavouredmindtardis/MissMoustachio and thescarletrose for helping me out with a minor detail of this chapter!_

_I'll try to get chapter 12 for you soon. Y'know, in the actual 4 days it's supposed to be up in._

_Please review with feedback! I thrive off of it, and it helps me write faster!_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter, even though there's minor pain at the end._

_So yes. Please review, slang dictionary at the bottom, you know the drill._

_Kisses and hugs, and enjoy chapter 11!_

* * *

Dean is terrified, of course, and Castiel can't blame him. Dinner with Cas is one thing, but dinner with most of Cas's family is something completely different.

Even though Dean seems to have gotten fond of Gabriel and grudgingly put up with Anna over the past few days, he's still clearly not as at ease with them as he is with Cas.

Eve is another matter.

Since the very first night of the World Series, when he had cried on her shoulder on the porch swing, she has been treating him as a sixth child; sure, maybe she pays a little more attention to him than the other children she has at home, but he is still very clearly family to her already.

And Castiel is grateful. It looks as though Dean needs more family than he has.

They refuse to let Dean help with dinner, despite how much he may wring his hands and practically beg to do his share, to repay them for their hospitality. He is forced to sit in an armchair in the living room with a book, randomly selected from Castiel's shelf, stuffed into his hands until the Miltons are done with their cooking.

Finally, dinner has been made, and Cas reaches out to pluck the book from Dean's hands, leaving him wide-eyed and startled. But Castiel just smiles down at him, sensing that the older boy's nerves are from more than just the suddenness of having his book taken away, and says, "Dinner is ready, Dean. Go wash up."

Dean nods and stiffly stands, making his awkward way over into the kitchen where he gives his hands a quick rinse, dries them off on a washcloth handily provided by a blushing Anna, and soon returns to Cas's side. "Where do I—" he begins quietly, looking at the table, and Castiel smiles at him again, taking his arm and practically dragging him along to the table.

"Next to me, if you'd like," Cas says with a coy look, pulling out two chairs from the side of the table.

There is a brief, warm pause, and Dean gives him the same look right back. "Yeah, I would like. Thanks, Cas."

The rest of the Milton children present file into the room, followed by Eve, who is holding a large dish in oven-mitt-clad hands. She sets it at the head of the table, where she then cautiously sits, straightening out her skirts, and smiles. "Castiel, would you like to say Grace tonight?"

Cas's eyes widen, and he stammers out a, "S-sure, I s'pose—"

Four pairs of Milton hands rise to the table's surface in unison and link, and Castiel sends Dean a small, encouraging smile, which finally makes Dean bring his hands up, too. His left twines in Cas's right and his right—well, Castiel hardly notices anything else, then, because even if it's just to say Grace, _he is holding hands with Dean Winchester, the boy he loves_. Dean's hands are warm and just rough enough to feel real, and Cas feels a wave of calm sweep over him as heads bow.

"Bless us, O Lord, and for These Thy Gifts which we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

His voice is strong and he doesn't stammer a single time—even though his first few words were faltering, the sensation of Dean's hand in his own makes him lose all anxiety and speak clearly.

The rest of the table echoes his last word, and then eyes are opening and Eve's are a little misty as she smiles at her son.

"Thank you, Castiel. And now—dig in!"

Gabriel lunges for the dish, giving himself a heaped serving of casserole and earning a quiet reprimand for reaching across the table. "Sorry, ma," he says cheekily, not sorry at all, and takes a bite. "Oh, this is _good_."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Gabriel," Eve chastises, and Cas sees Dean smile out of the corner of his eye; he's evidently realised that this is all just part of the Milton dinnertime ritual.

After Anna has served herself, too, Dean hesitantly scoops out a small portion of the casserole onto his own plate, and Castiel smiles before handing him the plate with biscuits on it. "Thanks," Dean says hastily and takes it from him, biting his lip evidently to conceal a smile when their fingers brush.

"So Dean," Eve begins once he's got a little something of everything on his plate, "Castiel tells us you work at Bobby Singer's garage in midtown, yes?"

Dean makes very sure to swallow before answering. "Yes'm. Have been for a few years now."

Eve smiles. "Well, we've been thinking of getting Gabriel his own car in a little while, but it'd be something not straight off the assembly line. Would it be possible for him to come in for a few weeks, maybe over a school break, and learn how to fix it up with help from you? It'd be a marvelous learning experience for him, of course, and the pay would be good—"

"Aw, Mizz Milton, I'd do it for free," Dean replies easily with a drawl and a grin. "Yeah, sure thing. Just let me know when the time comes, and I'll let Bobby know we'll be havin' an intern."

Gabriel scowls slightly at the description (either that, or at the thought of work), but knows better than to complain in front of his mother.

"How was school today?" Eve asks briskly, regarding all her children.

Anna shrugs. "No worse'n usual. Debbie said my sweater made me look like a closet case."

"What a senseless girl," Eve says, tone scolding. "You looked lovely, Anna."

Anna smiles into her casserole and doesn't reply, but it's obvious she feels better.

"A blast, as always," Gabriel says, reaching for another biscuit. "Didn't even get any mush."

Eve's eyes narrow. "Is that so. No homework at all? In any of your classes?"

"Yes, ma'am," Gabriel chirps, sending her the most innocent smile he can muster. "None at all."

"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth," Eve sighs, and then turns her gaze to Cas. "What about you, Castiel? How was school?"

"I—I b-believe the w-word is 'lumpy,'" Castiel says hesitantly.

"What's got you feelin' low?" Dean asks, eyebrows creasing into a frown.

Cas shrugs, picking at his casserole. "School is just… boring for me," he begins, talking straight to Dean. "And my teachers don't really care about the material, not the way they did in Boston. Not to mention that all of the students—well, let's just say I don't have many friends besides you and Sam. And you don't even go to my school, which means I have all of one friend."

There is a brief silence, maintained by each of the people at the table for different reasons.

Dean's foot just touches Cas's under the table. "Good thing I care enough about'cha enough for twenty friends, hmm?"

Castiel blushes scarlet and can barely speak. "Good thing," he echoes, unable to meet anyone's eyes, especially not Dean's.

The rest of dinner passes without incident, but the Miltons have to practically barricade Dean out of the kitchen to keep him from helping with the dishes. "You're our guest, Dean," Anna and Eve chorus. Dean frowns but doesn't protest beyond that, idly standing by and making polite conversation with all of them as they form an assembly line of dish-washing.

And finally, everything is done. Gabriel scuttles off to his room, and Anna goes to claim the telephone for herself. Eve sends the last two boys a smile before selecting a McCall's magazine from the coffee table and placing herself in an armchair to read it.

Castiel walks Dean to the door, and they sigh in unison. "Thanks for having me over, Cas," Dean says with a smile.

"Any time, Dean," Cas replies warmly. "I mean it."

"Thanks, again, for that," Dean repeats, leaning back against the doorframe. "And thanks for letting me watch the Series."

Castiel huffs out a quiet laugh. "Well, that was just convenient, of course. Since we were going to be watching it, anyway, it was the least I could do."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

They smile at each other, both stupid with happiness.

"So, uh, I should go," Dean says awkwardly at length.

"Yes, you should," Castiel agrees reluctantly. "Send Sam my regards."

Dean practically cackles. "His cage will be so rattled that the White Sox lost," he snickers. "Can't wait to tell him."

"He probably heard it on the radio," Cas says dryly.

Dean scowls. "Wow, Cas, thank you. Way to be a total party pooper."

Castiel shrugs and smiles cheekily at him. "You're welcome."

Dean laughs and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. "See ya tomorrow morning."

"Good night, Dean."

"Night. Oh—and tell your momma, thanks for everything," Dean adds, smile wide and genuine.

Castiel nods. "Of course."

"Bye!"

And then Dean flashes him one more grin and runs around the corner of the house to retrieve his car out of the back alley.

As the rumble of the engine growls its way into the distance, Castiel thinks that he's never been happier.

* * *

Michael, Lucifer, and Emmanuel come back the next day. Dinner feels completely different with them there, as it always does. Emmanuel says Grace, and Eve doesn't ask her children how school was. She knows the serious men have no time for idle chit-chat about their family's days.

Dinner is eaten mostly in silence, when the men of the house are home. Tonight is no exception.

Castiel feels himself missing Dean so much it's like a physical ache.

And then, in the immensely uncomfortable quiet, there is a knock at the door.

Emmanuel frowns, gently dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and stands up to go answer it.

It's their next-door neighbor, Pamela Barnes. A total gossip and not someone with whom Castiel would like to spend more time. She and Emmanuel exchange pleasantries, and finally, Emmanuel bothers to ask why she has come.

Pamela's lips clench into a tight line, and she pauses for a moment before saying, "May I come in?"

"Go right ahead," Emmanuel says graciously, stepping back to allow her in.

Castiel is worried from the instant she steps into their living room.

"Hello, Mrs. Barnes," Eve says with a gentle smile, standing up to embrace her. Pamela returns the greeting, but her manner is cold. "What brings you here this evening?"

"I didn't mean to interrupt dinner," Pamela begins, "but I felt this issue was too important to go ignored."

"What issue?" Eve questions, frowning.

Pamela fixes a glare to Anna, who practically cowers. "Are you aware that your daughter is… _seeing _a greaser?"

Castiel chokes, and Emmanuel thunders out a, "What?"

Pamela nods gravely. "I've been looking. And every night for the past week, there has been a very suspicious automobile parked in the alley just behind your house."

Anna stands up, face scarlet red with indignation. "That isn't—"

"Isn't true?" Pamela interrupts, sneering. "Are you accusing me of lyin'?"

"N-no," Anna stammers, so furious she can barely speak. "But I'm not _seeing _anyone—"

"Then how do you explain the car?" Pamela demands.

Castiel's blood runs cold in his veins; he should have known this was going to happen. And now everything is up in the air, and he is terrified.

Eve steps in, clearing her throat elegantly. "That isn't anyone Anna is seeing, I assure you. That was a friend of my children whom we invited over to watch the World Series with us."

Emmanuel frowns, clearly unappeased by this. "What friend is this?"

"Cassy's friend," Gabriel answers around a mouthful of biscuit, clearly unfazed by all these events. "That Dean Winchester cat."

Michael and Lucifer send each other significant looks, and Castiel feels sick with worry.

"…oh," Pamela says, sounding disappointed. "So… it was a friend, and not an illicit romantic partner."

"Not at all!" Anna says angrily. Cas almost smiles, having never seen his sister like this.

"Not at all," Eve repeats with a soft smile. "But thank you very much for your concern, Mrs. Barnes."

"You're welcome," Pamela says grudgingly. "Just thought I should share."

A few more awkward seconds of small talk later, and she leaves.

There is an immensely tense silence, and so many more significant looks are exchanged between the twins and Emmanuel that Castiel feels faintly dizzy from trying to understand them all.

He can barely force the rest of dinner down his throat, and when he sleeps, he has nightmares.

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Castiel is sent by his family to get groceries once more. He had had a half-day at school, meaning the second it ended, he could walk over to do the errand he'd been assigned.

As is his custom every time he is sent to go shopping, he stops by first the library, then the garage where Dean works.

This time, he doesn't see Dean as soon as he makes it there. His co-workers and friends are there, however, and the blond one—Balthazar, probably, if Cas remembers correctly—grins wolfishly at him. "He's in back," he calls to Cas. "I can go get him for you, if you want."

"Get who?" comes a familiar voice, and out of the back room strides Dean, face partly cast in shadow.

"You," Balthazar smirks and steps back out of their way.

"Dean," Castiel says with a warm smile, approaching him. Dean practically turns away, and Cas's eyebrows crease in a small frown.

"Hey, Cas."

"Is—is everything alright?" Castiel asks with worry, noticing instantly that Dean is acting bizarre.

"Juuuust fine," Dean assures him brightly, still not looking at him.

"_Dean_." Before he can second-guess himself, Cas grabs Dean by the collar and drags him out into the light.

And freezes in terror on the spot.

There's a large bruise around Dean's left eye; his lip is split; there are scrapes all along his cheekbones and forehead; his right hand is wrapped in pink-stained bandages around the knuckles. He winces slightly when Cas's hand lands on his shoulder and flinches away—there's clearly a bruise there, too.

He looks even worse than the last time he'd been 'jumped.' Much, much worse.

"Dean," Castiel breathes. "What—what happened this time?"

Dean struggles away from him. "Nothing. I fell."

"Tell me what happened, Dean," Castiel demands.

Dean sighs, but it comes out sounding more like a wheeze, and then Cas sees the finger-shaped bruise marks along his throat. "I—I got jumped. Same as last time."

Cas's mouth dries out. "Exactly the same as last time?" He hopes Dean knows what he's asking.

Dean averts his eyes and nods. "Exactly."

Castiel's hand flies to his mouth to hide his horror. "Oh, my God."

"It's not that bad," Dean assures him hastily. "It's not. They said they'd stop, they were just teaching me a lesson—"

"They told you to stay away from me, didn't they," Castiel interrupts, fuming. "Those—those—how _dare _they?"

"It doesn't matter," Dean says, trying to smile. "It doesn't. It's okay."

"Of course it matters," Cas whispers, reaching out to gently trace along Dean's bruised jaw with one finger. "Of course it does. Just—just look at you." A sudden realization hits him, and he jerks his hand away. "I did this. It's my fault."

"Cas," Dean scolds, "no, it isn't. Quit talkin' like that."

"It is _my fault_," Castiel stresses, taking a few steps back. "I'm a danger to you, Dean. This is the second time this has happened. The second time my brothers have taken it upon themselves to '_protect_' me."

"It had nothing to do with you!" Dean tries to say, but Cas shakes his head.

"It had everything to do with me," Castiel says firmly. "Dean, I—"

Suddenly, he knows what he must do, and it feels like a knife in his gut.

"You what?" Dean asks worriedly.

Cas takes a deep, shaky breath.

_It's for his own good_.

"Dean, I think we should stop being friends."

Dean's expression tears through him, and suddenly, Castiel's vision gets slightly blurred as his eyes prickle. "What?" he stammers, voice tiny and broken.

"I'm a danger to you," Cas repeats. "If I remain your friend, this will happen again. And you're not exactly the best kind of person to be around. I mean, you are a hood, aren't you?"

Dean drops his eyes and nods, and that simple act of concession breaks Castiel's heart.

But it's too late to stop now.

"So we should stop, Dean. I can't see you anymore. I'm sorry."

Before he can look at Dean again or reconsider or anything like that, he turns and quickly walks away, blinking back tears, ignoring Dean's hoarse, pleading call of "Cas!—" after him.

It's only when he's two blocks away that he allows himself to break down, leaning on the brick wall of some building for support as he sobs harder than he has in years.

_It's for his own good._

_It's for my own good._

_He'll be safe. He'll be happier without me._

_It's better this way._

But that doesn't help, of course, and once he's cried his throat raw and his eyes completely dry, Castiel gathers up his books and groceries and resumes his trudging journey back home, feeling as though he's just made the most terrible mistake of his life.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Closet case: someone to be ashamed of_

_Mush: homework_

_Lumpy: mediocre, on the bad side_

_Low: sad_

_To rattle someone's cage: to upset someone_


	12. Ain't Too Proud to Beg

_You guys are the BEST._

_Thank you so much for all of your reviews, and offers to fanart, and ultra-kind messages everywhere._

_And thank you for giving me hours of gloating material from your reviews for the last chapter. My favourites were definitely the ones that just said I HATE YOU in all-caps or something along those lines._

_Heh._

_To reward you for your pain, here's an extra-long chapter..._

_...with more pain in it._

_Oh, well._

_Um, having done the math and broken up my plot outline, looks like after this, there will be one more chapter and an epilogue. We're nearing the end, folks. I just hope I can get it all done in time._

_So anyway, slang dictionary at the bottom._

_Please let me know what you thought of this chapter- I thrive off feedback. My PM box is open, there's a space to review down there, and I also love to talk about this story on my tumblr. So please let me know!_

_And with that, enjoy chapter 12, and I'll see y'all in four more days._

* * *

The next morning, Dean arrives at seven forty-five AM on the dot to pick Cas up for school.

When the Chrysler stalls by the curb in front of the Milton house, no dark-haired boy is gracing the driveway waiting for them; it doesn't look like Cas is even there.

Dean growls, everything inside of him clenching painfully at the thought that Cas may have actually been serious when he said their friendship was over. In his whole life, Dean has never received a blow such as that. "Wait here, Sammy," he commands, and without providing an explanation as to why, hops out of the car and begins the walk to the front door.

Cas's words still spin in his head as he trudges up the steps.

_You are a hood, aren't you?_

_I think we should stop being friends._

_I can't see you anymore. I'm sorry._

He hisses out a quiet curse at his internal monologue, trying desperately to convince himself that it was just the heat of the moment, that Cas didn't mean it—and rings the doorbell.

Anna opens it a few seconds later. "Dean?"

"Hey, Anna, your brother home?"

This time, she knows better than to ask which one. "No, Dean, sorry. He took the hound this morning. Even woke up half an hour early to catch it."

Dean's expression hardens, and he must look faintly scary—_yeah, I must look like the hood Cas apparently thinks I am_—because Anna shrinks back slightly. "Thanks," he says darkly, jams his hands in his pockets, and slumps back to the car.

He doesn't say a word to Sam the rest of the ride to school, because he's not even sure he would be able to find the right things to say.

Cas is really so dead-set on them avoiding each other that he took the bus to school? Everyone within a hundred miles of Lawrence County knows its busses are the worst things to happen to America since the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl. They're certainly no place for the youngest Milton boy's delicate disposition, but he seems to have been quite serious when he told Dean they were done being friends.

Dean is a little off all day at work, too. Bobby hollers at him a few times for daydreamin' on the job, and Balthazar and Gordon both jeer at him, thinking his absent state of mind has to do with some newfound affection for some girl. They couldn't be farther from the truth, of course.

At the very, very back corners of his mind, where Dean's dark theories about the _real _reason Mary Winchester was killed live, hides a small and murky idea that maybe Cas only said they should stop being friends because he _knew_. He'd figured it out. And his brothers attacking Dean was just a fortuitously timed excuse.

Because how could he not have known? Dean was glaringly obvious about his feelings for the younger boy, of course, and what with Castiel's background and family and the general Kansas environment, it was highly unlikely that he'd received that knowledge well.

Dean is in love with Castiel Milton, and has been for a while. He has never been in love like this—not with Benny, not with Lisa, not with anyone. And he doesn't even know how to deal with these emotions, since they're so new to him.

Now, all he knows is that he should have done a better job of concealing them. Because very evidently, Cas had somehow figured it out and it had scared him off.

So he takes out all of his frustration on the row of jalopys out back behind the garage instead of using his lunch break for food and socializing, taking a crowbar from the wall of tools and smashing in windows, hoods, anything.

It doesn't make him feel any better, but at least he's nearly too tired to think of anything by the time he's allowed to leave work and go home.

* * *

He doesn't see Castiel the whole rest of the week.

Or the week after that.

And just when the pit of anger has stopped corroding him away and has melted into a dull ache that still, still hurts just enough to be noticeable at all times, the source of all his pain walks straight through his front door.

Sam had mentioned that he and his English class had been assigned yet another project. And Dean should have connected the dots, should have figured out that Castiel was Sam's only friend in that class—but he somehow didn't.

So, when one Tuesday afternoon, the screen door swings open and Sam strides in, accompanied by a very anxious-looking Cas, Dean is totally unprepared.

His hand falters on the bottle he is currently opening, causing the metal of the cap to slide over and cut his fingertip. Face burning (with anger or pain or utter longing he couldn't tell), he hisses out a curse and looks away, turning his back on the two of them so he could suck on the wound as he searched for a Band-Aid.

"Dean?" comes Sam's voice.

"What?" Dean replies gruffly.

"Um—are you using the table?"

"Yes," Dean says, opening a bandage and affixing it to his finger. "Go use your room."

"My desk isn't big enough," Sam pouts.

"Fine," Dean snaps, whirling around and storming into the kitchen to grab the newspaper he'd been reading off of the space Sam was referring to. "Use the Goddamn table."

He doesn't dare look at Cas, but he can feel blue eyes on him.

"Gee, Dean, calm down," Sam mutters, sending him a reproachful frown. "I wasn't saying you had to move, I was just asking if you—'cause this might take up a lot of space, and I didn't want to bother—"

"Whatever," Dean interrupts, posture stiff as he takes a deep swig of his beer. "Do whatever you want. I'm going for a drive."

He pushes past his brother to the door, ignoring the low question of "What's wrong with him today?" that Sam poses to Cas once he's out.

Dean doesn't hear Castiel's reply, nor does he want to.

(Which is a lie. He's equal parts mad, heartbroken, and so desperate to see Cas and talk to Cas and hold Cas again that he feels as though he could die from it all.)

He takes out his anger, once again, on his car, slamming the door just a little too hard behind him, but apologizing instantly to her for any damage he may have caused. It takes him a few circles around the neighborhood to calm down slightly and relax enough to enjoy the drive a bit, the cool wind in his hair, Chuck Berry on the radio, the darkness of the sky—

Hold on.

Darkness of the sky?

Dean peers at it and frowns; it's just gone four, and it shouldn't be nearly this dark.

Come to think of it, the wind is a little bit wrong. Not strong enough to be real wind, and not weak enough to not be there.

Dean has felt all of this before, and he's suddenly worried.

He reaches out and turns up the radio, flipping it to the only other channel his car can pick up. It's the public radio channel, and sometimes they have emergency weather broadcasts if the weather warrants it.

He waits with bated breath as it crackles to life, and then listens: "—and for everyone in Lawrence county and surrounding counties, we _repeat_, there is a tornado approaching. Take shelter below ground, and tell others to do the same. Do not leave your house. The tornado has a reported severity of—"

Feeling queasy, Dean shuts the radio off and jets home.

When he bursts through the front door, Sam and Cas are huddled around the table and piles of papers.

"Cellar," he gasps, "now."

Sam lifts his head to frown at him. "What? Dean, we're working—"

"There's a tornado," Dean explains harshly. "Grab whatever it is that you want to save, and I'll help you get Dad downstairs. Now, Sam, go!—"

Sam nods, eyes growing wide with worry. Even someone who's never experienced a full-scale tornado knows that in Kansas, they are something to be feared. He quickly packs the papers from the table into a tight bundle, sends Cas a firm nod, and rushes off to his room to collect his emergency kit.

Castiel stares at Dean with terrified eyes, and Dean forces himself to meet his gaze. "What are you lookin' at?" he asks coolly, fingers twitching for a cigarette but knowing now isn't the time.

"A—a t-tornado?" Cas asks feebly. "A-are y-you s-s-sure?"

He's stuttering.

And even though Dean isn't sure if that's just from anxiety about the oncoming storm or from the ending of their friendship, that _hurts_. Castiel is stuttering when talking to Dean, and that hurts more than anything.

"Positive," Dean grates out after a second of reeling in shock. "We have a cellar. You'll be fine. Sam will show you the way, now get out of mine so I can get what I need."

Cas drops his eyes to the floor and bites his lip, taking a few steps away from the table so he's close to the wall and allowing Dean to pass by. Dean grabs the first aid box from a cupboard, the emergency radio from a shelf, and a few blankets from a closet.

Castiel shifts meekly. "Is there anything I can do to—"

"Sam," Dean yells, "wouldja show Castiel how to get to the cellar?"

He knows he may be being a little bit harsh, but honestly couldn't care less.

Sam emerges out of his room, arms filled with flashlights and a few books. "Follow me!" he chirps, and Cas barely has time to send Dean one last lingering look before following Sam down the stairs to the cellar.

Dean places everything he'd gathered at the top of the stairs and waits patiently for Sam to return before moving over to John's room and, with a little help from Sam, managing to drag their father down into the cellar.

Once everyone is inside, Dean locks the door and silence falls.

"We'll be safe here, right?" Sam asks quietly, already burrowing into a blanket for emotional support.

"We'll be safe," Dean assures him, taking a brief, gentle moment to ruffle his hair. "I promise, Sammy."

Castiel clears his throat, and Dean shoots him a glare in the sudden pitch darkness—he knows Cas can't see it, but he feels better anyway. "Um—it's—it's a b-bit d-dark," he says meekly, and Dean snorts.

"Oh, well done, Sherlock," he snaps, and then rifles through Sam's emergency kit until he finds a matchbox. He strides over to the centre of the cellar where he strikes a match and sets it to a small oil lamp that hasn't seen use for many years; flickering orange light fills the space and Cas lets out a soft sigh of relief.

"Th-thank you," he whispers, and he looks so miserable, all by himself, that Dean feels vindictively possessed to keep going.

"What, you afraid of the dark?" he taunts. "Aww, poor baby, don't have anyone to hold your hand and sing you lullabies now, do you—"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, eyes flashing. "That's enough."

Dean suddenly feels immensely ashamed of himself and falls silent.

"It's gonna be okay, Cas," Sam assures the boy softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We have tornado warnings all the time here. You get used to it. Nothing bad ever happens, and even if it did, it wouldn't happen to us. This is a real good cellar to hide in, I promise."

Castiel nods mutely, letting out a shaky sigh and allowing his eyes to squeeze shut. "Th-thank you."

Dean glowers, feeling even more self-loathing than before.

Sam sits with Cas, and Dean sits with John. John, of course, is utterly apathetic to the whole situation, and after sending Dean a nasty look, ignores him.

So Dean is utterly bored, of course, and the only thing he can think of to entertain himself with is the emergency radio. He flips through the available channels—music, public radio, classical music, sports—restlessly, only staying on each one for a few seconds before moving to the next.

This lasts for about fifteen minutes, and Dean sees Castiel flinch a little bit every time the radio crackles over to a new station.

Finally, Sam has had enough.

"Dean," he calls sharply from across the cellar, "wouldja quit it?"

"No. I'm bored."

"Dean."

"_No_."

With a hiss, Sam stands up and strides over to Dean, jaw tense and posture hostile. "Stop it," he commands, voice low, but Dean just laughs at him.

"Yeah, okay, Sammy, why don't'cha make me."

Sam crouches down next to him and grabs him by the shirt front so Dean has to face him. "You listen to me," he snarls, quietly enough that no one but Dean can hear. "You—I don't know what happened between you and Cas, okay? And I don't care. But—that poor boy, he's _miserable_ over there. He's lived in Boston his whole life, and they don't have rough weather up there. He's terrified and he's alone and you're not helping by messin' with the radio. And—" Sam takes a deep breath, almost as though to calm himself, and for the first time, Dean sees a glimpse of fear in his brother's eyes. "And you know he doesn't trust me the way he trusts you. You're closer to him than I am—or you were, anyway. And he's not going to calm down and stop having this panic attack if I try to help him. So for his sake—if you ever cared about him at all—you're gonna go over there, _stow your crap_, and calm him down like a good friend."

Dean blinks.

"Seriously? Nothing? You're not even going to—"

"You're right," Dean says quietly. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll just—okay."

He shuts off the radio and stands, walking tensely over to one of the cabinets lining the walls. This cellar functions as a not-so-secret hiding place of most of the really good liquor in the house, and that's probably going to come in handy now. Using the flame from his lighter for illumination, Dean peers at the labels of the whiskey bottles and gin bottles and rum bottles until he finds the best one. Sure, he'd drunk most of it on his 18th birthday, but there's enough left to at least calm someone down.

Dean makes his way over to Cas's side, extends the bottle, and clears his throat.

Slowly, Castiel looks up at him, and then his eyes dart to the bottle. With a twinge of painful shame, Dean sees the true terror in his eyes, the tenseness of his posture with his knees up and his arms wrapped around himself, the slight tremor in his lower lip, and bitterly regrets his treatment of the boy.

"Take it," Dean says gruffly. "It'll—you'll feel better."

Cas does, not quite meeting Dean's eyes. "W-what is—"

"Best whiskey in the house. Makes you all warm and happy," Dean answers, extending the bottle once more. "Just drink up, Cas."

Cas frowns at the label. "Are y-you—I'm n-not s-sure th-th-this is the b-best id-d-dea—"

"If you got a better one, lemme know," Dean snaps, sitting down next to him.

"N-no, D-dean, you mis-mis-misunderst-st-stand," Cas smiles, slowly uncapping the bottle. "T-thank you."

"Best if you drink a whole lot at once," Dean advises, ignoring the warmth in Cas's voice. "It'll burn, but you'll get used to it."

Castiel smiles weakly at him, places the bottle to his lips, and drinks. Dean raises an amused eyebrow, waiting for a reaction—and there it is; Cas splutters and covers his mouth with his hand, coughs wracking his narrow frame. Once he's calmed slightly and swallowed the rest of his initial try, he sends Dean a wary look. "Th-that—p-people en-en-_enjoy_ that?"

"It's a bit of an acquired taste," Dean grins, plucking the bottle out of Cas's hands and taking a deep swig (he tries and fails not to think about the fact that the other boy's mouth was _just there_). It warms him from inside, only burning a little bit, and he sends Cas a bright smile. "You get used to it."

Cas's expression hardens, and he reaches out wordlessly for the bottle again. Dean isn't sure if he genuinely wants more, if he's panicked to the point that the first gulp actually helped, or if he's trying to prove himself. Dean tells himself he doesn't really care, anyway, and hands it over. Castiel drinks deeper this time, and his grimace is less pronounced.

"Better?" Dean smirks.

Cas raises a finger, as though to say "wait for it." After a pause, he releases a breath and rasps, "I th-think so."

"Keep going," Dean advises. "It only goes up from here."

Sam sends him a bit of an irritated look from across the cellar, but Dean brushes it off. He's helping, isn't he?

An hour passes, and Castiel has finished off the bottle of whiskey. "I—I b-believe I've ac-c-cquired the taste," he announces, handing the empty bottle back to Dean. His words are cut off with a hiccup, and he blushes so bright Dean can see it in the dark, covering his mouth a second later.

Above ground, sirens begin to blare and wail, and Cas jumps, still evidently not fully at ease.

"Relax," Dean says impatiently, getting up and leaving his side. "That just means the tornado's almost gone."

"I thought it meant the tornado's almost here," Sam points out with a frown, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Well, it does, but since we've been waiting this whole time for it to get here, since it's about to be here, that means it's about to leave," Dean explains, feeling a soft buzz running through his veins and realizing with a start that maybe he'd drunk a little more than one sip.

"That makes no sense," Sam mutters and turns away again. Dean grins at his back and goes back over to the cabinet to retrieve another bottle.

When he returns to Cas's side, the boy reaches up with a delighted chirp and fumbles the bottle away from Dean. It's rum this time, because Dean wants to save the rest of the whiskey for a special occasion. "Easy, there, tiger," Dean chuckles, sitting down next to him with a little less grace than he'd like, a bit closer than he'd intended. "Can't send you back home too tight, or your momma will never talk to me again."

"I don't know what that means," Cas sighs, uncapping the bottle, and Dean is pleased to note that enough alcohol has gotten into his system that he is no longer stuttering, "but I like the way it sounds when you say it." He raises the bottle to Dean in a mock salute before drinking deeply. "Oooooh. I like this one. It's nicer."

Dean scoffs at him. "So you didn't like the whiskey, but you like the rum? You have girly taste in drinks."

Cas hiccups again and hands the bottle to Dean once more. "This one tastes warmer, see?"

"I know how rum tastes, baby," Dean chuckles, pushing it toward him. "You just hold onto that. Still afraid of the tornado?"

With a start, Dean notices that they're falling back into their old routine of friendship.

With another, he realizes that he doesn't mind.

Castiel evidently feels all of this, too, because after another long sip, he looks at Dean pensively. "I didn't mean it, you know," he says quietly, words beginning to slur together a little, making him sound Southern.

"Mean what?"

"When I called you a hood. I didn't mean it. You're the best friend I've ever had, Dean, and I—I don't want to stop being friends with you, but I—"

Dean knows he has to interrupt, or Cas will say something he'll regret once he sobers up. "Don't try too hard," he warns. "Your brain don't exactly work right when you're buzzed. So stick to one-syllable words."

Cas hums, fingers clutching desperately at the bottle of rum as though he'll die if he lets go. "I like feeling like this."

"What, being drunk?" Dean laughs.

"I'm not drunk!" Cas protests indignantly. "I'm all warm, and happy. I like it. I like you."

Dean freezes at that, eyes darting from the happy-go-lucky smile playing across Cas's lips to his wide, sincere eyes, to the bottle. "Do you, now."

"I like you _lots_," Cas sighs, taking another swig. "Lots and lots and lots."

"Is that so—"

"You know what else I like lots?" Cas enthuses, sitting forward eagerly. "I like painting. Drawing in general. Art. I like art."

The non sequitur has Dean blinking in confusion. "Sorry, what does that have to do with—"

"I like art lots," Cas says dreamily. "And I want to be an artist when I grow up. Have my work in museums and rich people's sitting rooms. But _Father_—" He makes an angry snorting sound and takes another deep swig of rum. "_Father _says that's not _profitable_. _Father_ says that's not a real profession, why can't I be interested in business like my perfect, perfect brothers? Ha."

Dean frowns, sensing Cas is getting into something pretty dark here. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I like you, and I'm drunk, and I—mmmm," Cas finishes, his words trailing off into a happy hum as he tips forward, his head resting against Dean's shoulder.

"Whoa, okay, there," Dean laughs awkwardly, trying to shift away slightly, but Cas grumbles and wraps his rum-free hand around Dean's bicep, forcing him to stay put.

"You're warm," he mumbles, rubbing his cheek along the flannel of Dean's shirt. "And soft—I could stay like this forever. I mean, art is nice, but—that's all I want, really…"

"Kind of a sad life," Dean jokes, growing increasingly… something with each word. He's not nervous, he's not afraid, he's not worried, he's—he wants this. He wants to be with Cas like this, but he's not sure if this is just the alcohol talking.

"A perfect life," Cas sighs. "I've always wanted to go to Paris, too, but Father keeps on only taking Michael and Lucifer… I hate them so much sometimes, you know. All of them. My whole family. Except—except Mother. She understands me. She buys me paper for my drawings and coloured pencils. But Anna—Anna makes me help her with math, and Gabriel makes fun of me, and Michael and Lucifer hurt people I love and don't care about me, and Father doesn't care about anyone. It felt like no one cared about me, y'know?"

Dean nods, mouth drying out.

"And then I met you," Cas says blissfully, words quiet. "And you cared about me, and I cared about you, and then my brothers had to spoil it all, just like they spoil everything."

And suddenly, Dean can't take it anymore. "_They _didn't spoil anything between us," he says, voice low and livid. "_You _did. It was _your _choice to stop being my friend, not theirs. I would have been fine with taking a beating every month or so. Not like I haven't had to put up with that before, for a helluva lot less. It would have been worth it for you. For _us_. So don't you blame anything on your brothers."

But Cas doesn't even seem to hear him, instead sliding down his arm and turning over so his head is in Dean's lap, looking up adoringly at him. "I've been writing you a sonnet," he chirps. "Wanna hear it?"

Dean blinks. "Did you not hear a word I—"

"_The myriad shades of green that live behind—such windows to a soul like no one other's—are captivating to the point that I_—" Cas begins to recite, his words even more slurred now.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Dean interrupts incredulously, but Cas just flashes him a bright smile and goes on.

"_Are captivating to the point that I—must picture them as those_—I can't remember the rest," he says suddenly, pouting.

"Maybe that's for the best, hmm?" Dean laughs, one hand falling to stroke through his dark hair. "Man, you're really smashed, aren't you."

"I suppose I am," Cas sighs, wriggling a little in his lap. "At least I'm not scared about the tornado any more…"

"Oh, you're not?" Dean beams. "Great. I've done a great job."

"But Dean," Cas says, suddenly serious again, "when I—when I'm normal again, you—we have to stop being—I mean, I meant what I said, about us not being friends—"

Dean's face hardens. "Is that so."

"It's for your own good," Cas pleads, suddenly reaching up to cup Dean's face in his hands. "I promise—it's to keep us both out of—"

"What, danger?" Dean scoffs. "Cas, if you honestly think that two Boston boys with some sorta complex that they're—"

"They could kill you without a second thought," Cas interrupts, still entreating. "I know they could, and—see, they don't care about—just don't, Dean. Just stay away from me." As he speaks, he traces Dean's cheekbones with his thumbs, and Dean is finding it a little hard to focus on his words.

"I will if you will," he rasps, bitterly angry again despite the warmth flowing under his skin.

"I've been exercising self-restraint my whole life, Dean, I think I can…" And suddenly Cas trails off, his eyes fluttering closed and his hands sliding down and away from Dean's face.

He's asleep.

"What a lightweight," Dean chuckles despite himself, allowing himself to stroke his hair once more before pulling away and gently settling Cas on the floor, his head pillowed by Dean's jacket.

"Dean," comes a soft voice, and Dean looks up; Sam is standing right over him. "What did you do?"

Dean shrugs. "He calmed down, didn't he?"

Sam's lips press into a tight line, and Dean knows that the alcohol isn't what he's talking about.

The sirens shut off.

"All clear," Dean says brightly, and nudges Cas. Cas doesn't stir too much, but makes a disgruntled sound. Dean laughs at him and helps Sam get John and the emergency kits upstairs before scooping Castiel up in his arms, bridal-style, and carrying him up to the living room. The boy is surprisingly light, and very warm, and very pliant in Dean's arms, and Dean tries not to think about how right it feels to be this close to him, because he's still angry and Cas is still set on them not being friends.

He wakes up from his little nap around half an hour later, and it's clear he's sobered up at least a little. He blinks owlishly, sits up, and frowns at his surroundings. "Dean?..."

"Yeah?" Dean calls, poking a head out from around the kitchen's corner. "Oh, good, you're awake."

Cas drops his gaze and nods, and Dean, with a chill, realizes that Cas is holding true to his word and isn't being friends with Dean anymore.

"I'll call your folks, let them know you're on your way back," Dean says briskly and without emotion, crossing over to the beat-up telephone on the wall. "What's the number?"

Cas tells him, and Dean dials. After a few rings, there is a click as the other end is answered. "Hello?" a mellifluous voice says, and Dean exhales in relief—it's Eve.

"Mizz Milton!" he says warmly. "Hi."

"Is that—Dean? Oh, hi, there!"

"Yeah, it is. I'm just callin' to let you know that Castiel is just about to be on his way home," Dean tells her, sending Cas a significant look that means _okay, time for you to go_.

"Oh, so he's alright?" Eve instantly questions. "We were all ever so worried about him—"

"He's just fine," Dean chuckles. "How are all of y'all doin' over there?"

"We're fine, too. And—Dean, I'm sorry just for springing him on you and Sam, but Emmanuel and the twins would be less than content with having—"

"What, with having a greaser in the house?" Dean interrupts with a bitter laugh. "And a Winchester, at that. No, no, ma'am, I understand. It's all alright. And like I said, your son is just leaving."

"Thank you, Dean," Eve says softly. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble. Well, I gotta go, so—see you around, I suppose."

"Goodbye," she answers, and he can practically hear the melancholy smile in her voice.

They hang up, and Dean turns to Cas. "Time for you to go running home to Mommy."

Cas stands up, quavering slightly in his stance. "Thank you," he says stiffly. "Send Sam my regards."

"Yeah, I'll tell him you said bye, sure," Dean smirks. "You need me to walk you home or anything?"

"No," Cas says, voice clear and strong all of a sudden. "No, Dean, this—whatever happened while I was intoxicated, it doesn't change anything. We can't be friends. I'm sorry."

And with that, he strides out of the house and all but slams the door behind him.

And that hurts plenty, of course, but at least he isn't stuttering anymore.

* * *

_SLANG DICTIONARY_

_Hound: bus_

_Jalopy: an old junk car_

_Tight: drunk_


	13. I Want to Walk You Home

_..._

_..._

_Welp._

_Here it is: The Chapter. The one I've been torturin' all of y'all with ever since the start._

_Since the buildup has been so intense, I... I really hope this lives up to everyone's expectations..._

_There's not even a slang dictionary this time._

_Oh, and this is the second-to-last chapter. Chapter 14 is the last one of this story. THAT IS SO SAD OMFG WHAT WILL I DO AFTER THAT AAAAAAAH_

_So, uh, anyway... Please review! I love hearing what people have to say about everything I made you put up with for the sake of getting to this point. Tell me if the wait was worth it, tell me if it wasn't... etc. PM me, review, drop me a line at my tumblr, feel free to use the tag on there, etc._

_Without further ado..._

_Please enjoy chapter 13 (also, wow, how perfect is that title?! I swear I didn't just make that one up)_

_(also, there's an Elvis song mentioned in there, and the chapter will make more sense if you at least look up the lyrics)_

_Chapter 13._

* * *

And after that, Dean expects not to see him again for weeks.

He tries not to think about everything Castiel said.

He tries not to write down every word he got to hear of the sonnet.

He tries not to drive past his house that morning, and he tries not to be disappointed when Cas isn't waiting there.

He tries.

And he fails.

And what's more, he tries not to hope that he'll see Cas again soon.

But that failed attempt resolves itself into reality.

Because the very next day, after school when Sam has gone out to buy some more milk for his breakfast cereal, there is a quiet knock at the front door.

Dean frowns, shuts off the radio programme he was listening to, and stands. "Uh—yeah?" (Normally, just the screen door would be closed, but Sam has always been a little bit paranoid and closed the real door behind him, too, meaning Dean can't see who it is.)

"Dean?" comes the faltering answer.

Heart thudding so loudly in his chest Dean thinks Cas has to be able to hear it on the other side, Dean slowly opens the door. "Cas?" he asks warily. "What are you doin' here?"

Because it is Cas, of course. His arms are wrapped around books and then his ribs tightly, and he looks miserable. "Can I come in? It's cold…"

Out of pure instinct bred into him since childhood, Dean instantly pulls the doors open all the way and stands aside. Cas shivers his way in, sets his books on the table, and Dean closes the doors and frowns. "So, uh, what _are _you doing here?" he questions.

Cas shifts and looks around uneasily. "Um—I'm here to work on the project with Sam?" he says unsurely.

"Sam ain't here," Dean tells him with a frown. "Left half an hour ago and won't be back for a while. Did he—"

"He told me he was going to be here," Cas says, looking uneasier by the second.

"Well, he either forgot about his errands or he lied," Dean shrugs, turning away to fold up his newspaper.

A thought suddenly hits him, and he freezes on the spot: _or maybe, he wanted us to make up, so he set it up so we'd be alone together_…

"I… I should go, then," Castiel says quietly after a long silence. "Sorry to have bothered you."

"No!" Dean objects, turning around to face him once more. "No, stay a while."

"Dean," Cas huffs, "you know I can't. I'm going to—"

"At least let me walk you home," Dean pleads.

"I'm not a child!" Cas suddenly all but shouts, taking a furious step in closer with his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Yeah? Well, you sure act like one sometimes!" Dean snarls, and he knows he's about to say something he'll regret. "I mean, come on, Cas, just—I miss you, okay?"

There is a tense pause, and then Castiel crosses his arms tightly over his chest and looks down with a scowl.

"Please stay," Dean says quietly. "I'll put on the new Elvis record, we'll talk, it'll be good—stay."

"Fine," Cas growls, slamming his books back down on the table. "Fine."

Dean is so relieved his hands tremble as he goes over to the beat-up record player and cues up the first track on the album that's perpetually there. After a moment, it starts, and he turns the volume down a little and returns to Cas's side.

"Hey," he mouths. "Relax."

"No," Cas snaps. "If Sam isn't here, I shouldn't be here, either, and we—we still can't be friends, Dean."

Dean expels a hiss through clenched teeth and strides over to the kitchen, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. "I don't care what you say we can't be."

He knows he's playing with fire, saying things like that, but he is honestly past caring.

Castiel shifts, toying with the hem of his shirt awkwardly as he tries not to make eye contact with Dean. "Well, I'm here," he says finally, tone flat. "So say whatever it is that you feel like you have to say and let me go home."

"I don't—" That makes it sound like Dean is keeping Cas prisoner, and he scowls. "Look, I'm not forcing you to stay. If you really want to leave that much—if no part of our friendship meant a single damn thing to you—the door is right there."

There is a very tense silence, and after five seconds, Cas has not shifted a single muscle.

Dean gives a grim, humourless smile. "Yeah. Thought so. Want something to drink?"

Cas shakes his head and doesn't reply beyond that.

Dean opens his beer and drinks, moving across to sprawl out in a chair by the kitchen table. "But I do think we should talk, though."

"Really?" Cas says bitingly. "What could you have to say to me?"

Dean's eyes widen. "Whoa, now, no need to get nasty," he drawls coolly. "Just want to talk like normal, civil people, not babies having tantrums."

Castiel's eyes flash and harden, and he stiffly pulls a chair back from the table and sits down. "I'm not a child, nor am I a baby."

"But you like it when I call you that," Dean observes idly, twirling the bottle cap between his fingers. "But that doesn't matter. How have you been?"

Cas looks faintly startled. "Uh—alright, I suppose," he says guardedly. "School is… uneventful, Michael and Lucifer treat me the same as they always have, um. That's it. What—what about you?"

"Miserable," Dean replies, tipping back in his chair to stare at his ceiling. "It's the time of year when everyone's car breaks, so I'm really busy at work."

"Oh," Cas says softly. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

The song changes with a click, making them both jump. They just look at each other, and as the intro to Elvis's "(Now and Then There's) A Fool Such as I" starts, Dean takes a deep, shaky breath.

"But that's not really why I've been miserable," he admits, voice low.

Cas bites his lip and nods, averting his eyes. "I figured it wasn't."

"So—are you—were you serious?" Dean asks, tone almost pleading. "When you said we shouldn't be friends?"

"I was serious when I said we're a danger to each other!" Cas bristles. "If my brothers find out I was here, talking to you instead of working with Sam—they'd—it'd be so much worse than last time, Dean, and maybe they'd go for me, too—"

"But I can take it!" Dean argues. "I would be okay with that, Cas. I'd take your beatings, too, but if I just got to see you—it'd be worth it."

Cas stares at him, blue eyes wide, and Dean's heart aches. "You mean that?" he whispers.

"Haven't I proved that a couple times already?" Dean asks with a melancholy smile. "Not like I haven't done it before, right? I mean, if I'm such a _hood_, shouldn't I be used to beatings, anyway?"

Cas stands up abruptly from the table, eyes wild and unreadable. "You're—that's—"

"Don't say it's not true, because it is," Dean says calmly, standing up, too, and returning to the kitchen to leave his empty bottle by the fridge. "Maybe I've cleaned up a bit, but I'm still one of the frontrunners of the greaser gang."

"And…" Cas licks his lips, searching for moisture. "And what makes you think I care?"

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Well, if you don't care if my brothers beat on you, what makes you think I care about your background? Don't you think putting up with that is worth it, too?"

"I—I don't understand," Dean rasps, heart about to pound out of his chest. "I thought you didn't want to be friends at all, not—what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want to be," Castiel explains gently, "but we can't be."

"Why not?" Dean snarls, slamming his hand down on the countertop to vent some anger. "You ain't makin' any kind of sense, Cas."

"Because we can't," Cas says flatly. "Because it's dangerous."

"I've done a lot worse for a lot less," Dean scowls. "And what you just gave me isn't a reason."

Castiel's expression changes into something darker and he takes a small step in, eyes narrowed. "I don't understand why you care so much," he accuses. "I'm—I'm a nothing, a nobody. I stutter, I get good grades, and my father is one of the richest men in town. You should either hate me or not care about me at all. You shouldn't call me 'baby' or 'Boston' and go out of your way to drive me to school every morning, and you shouldn't be friends with my mother, and you shouldn't stand up for me the way you do. Our friendship _doesn't make sense_."

"All the best things don't," Dean says hoarsely, but Cas isn't done.

"You keep asking me why I think we need to stop being friends. Well, I need to know why it's so important to you that we stay friends. Why we were even friends in the first place."

In any other context, the words would sting, but Dean sees an opportunity, and, utterly breathless, cuts him off: "Look, just—listen to me, okay? My turn to talk."

Cas shrinks back slightly and nods.

Dean lets out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Well, I'm—I'm better at fixin' up cars than talking about my feelings," he begins with an awkward laugh. "And you keep asking me why, and—I guess the reason's pretty simple. I thought it wasn't for a while, and then one day it hit me, and—see, I—I really like ya, Cas, and…" He looks down at the ground, mouth utterly dry, unable to believe he's actually saying this. "And not just as friends. As—as more." He knows he is rambling, but he needs to get all of this out. "And this is a helluva lot more uncomfortable than I'd hoped, but I was just wonderin' if—"

And suddenly, he can't talk, because Cas has closed the distance between them and because there are warm hands on either side of his face and a mouth pressing against his lips.

For a moment, Dean freezes.

Cas's lips are soft and fit just right, and Dean's pulse skyrockets, and his hands are just about to fly up to pull Cas in closer and deepen the kiss when he's gone.

"I'm sorry," Cas gasps, eyes huge, as he takes a few stumbling steps backwards, bumping into the table. "I'm sorry—God, Dean, I shouldn't have done that, I'm sorry, I'm—"

Dean crosses over to him in two large steps, grabs a handful of his shirt collar, and pulls him in for a proper kiss.

Cas melts up into it, hands wrapping up around Dean's neck and entire body shivering. Dean smiled against his lips and then pushes gently with his tongue to open them, and Cas does instantly, allowing the kiss to turn into something else entirely—from a happy accident into a promise.

And they kiss until they're both utterly breathless, and Castiel's hair is an utter mess from where Dean has pushed through it with his hand to keep Cas almost painfully close, and there are two bundles of flannel on Dean's back that are shaped like Cas's hands.

They finally separate, and Castiel is blushing bright, and Dean's smile is wide and genuine. "That's why," he says hoarsely after a lengthy pause. "That's why."

Cas just looks up at him with this expression in his eyes that makes Dean suck in a startled breath, and then Cas grabs him and pulls him in again for another kiss, this one harder and deeper.

"I've been waiting for forever to do this," Dean whispers at length when the kiss has softened. "You know that, right?"

"Oh, shut up," Cas breathes and seals their lips together so Dean can't talk anymore or even think.

So finally, Dean pulls away again, hands resting on Cas's hips. "So we're still not friends, right?" he asks, tone almost teasing.

Cas shakes his head, and Dean's face falls. "We're not friends," Cas confirms quietly, and then glances up at Dean, biting his lip. "I was hoping to be more. Actually."

Dean grins, letting out a relieved breath, and kisses him again.

When they're both relatively contented, they separate, and Cas gives a bashful smile. "I've been waiting to do that for a while, too," he admits quietly.

Dean laughs. "Knew it. Can I walk you home? It's almost dinner time for you, probably."

Castiel glances at a clock. "Oh," he says, disappointment in his voice. "Yes, it is." He smiles up at Dean, and adds, "I'd love for you to walk me home."

And Dean does.

And this time, safely hidden behind a tree, he gets to live out his little goodnight kiss fantasy.

"Will I see you again?" he whispers once he and Cas have pulled away a bare millimeter.

"Yes," Cas replies with a blinding smile. "Yes, Dean."

"So I'll pick you up tomorrow for school, okay?" Dean asks, anxious anyway.

"Okay," Cas promises, kissing him swiftly before pulling away, smoothing down his hair, and smiling at him again. "Good night, Dean."

"Good night," Dean calls after him softly, and, as he walks back home, thinks that he's never been happier.

Once he makes it there, Sam is sitting at the kitchen table. "Hi," he says, a smug smile on his face. "How'd it go?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "How'd what go?"

Sam flushes slightly. "Well… y'know."

"No, I don't," Dean frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"The thing with Cas!" Sam explains, exasperated. "How'd it go?"

Dean suddenly blushes, too, and goes over to the kitchen. "I—still don't know what you mean."

"Deeeean," Sam sighs, "I was in the back yard the whole time, okay? I know something had to have happened."

"You were—what?" Dean splutters. "So you didn't get what you went off to get?"

Sam grins. "I never needed any milk in the first place. I just wanted for you two to be alone and talk things out."

Dean is wordless for a moment and then smiles softly. "Thank you."

"Yeah, sure thing, whatever. So? What happened? Are you two—?"

"Yes," Dean confirms quietly, beaming down at his hands as he washes them. "Now don't ask stupid questions, Sammy, and come wash up for dinner."

Sam bounces up out of his chair and sends Dean a brilliant smile. "Took you long enough. I'm happy for you."

"I'm happy for me, too," Dean allows himself to say, and then he becomes worried that if he says anything else, his heart will burst with happiness. "Now quit bothering me about it and help with cooking."

Sam doesn't ask any more questions, but Dean can see him smiling out of the corner of his eye when they all say Grace.

As Dean falls asleep thinking of Cas, he knows things are looking up, and that they can only get better from here.


	14. Earth Angel (Epilogue)

_Well, folks... here it is. The very last chapter._

_I'd just like to thank EVERYONE. Everyone who's reviewed, who's come to talk to me, who has just been reading and not saying anything, ha. It's been a hell of a trip, folks. Thank you for accompanying me on it._

_A brief slang dictionary, RIGHT NOW (because it wouldn't make sense to have it at the end): passion pit means drive-in movie theater, and backseat bingo means making out in the back of a car. Uh, that should be it._

_I'm really sad to leave this story behind. Really. And I'm sad to leave all of my amazing readers behind._

_But such is the way of life._

_Please keep in touch, though. Even though I have no idea what my next project will be (maybe it'll be Les Mis-related...). _

_And everyone who's just been lurking this whole time? Now is your chance to say hello and give me your thoughts on this story as a closing statement._

_So again. Thank you so much for reading, for putting up with me, and for loving my boys._

_Thank you, bless you, and enjoy the end of Bubblegum and Cigarettes._

* * *

They make plans for a week after that.

When Dean is driving Sam and Castiel to school, they try to limit the significant looks, because even though Sam knows about them, he tends to get very red-faced indeed every time their stares catch a little too long. (It's not that he minds. It's just—_his brother and his best friend. Gross_.)

So they finally find a time when Dean isn't working and Cas can come up with a neat little lie to tell his parents, and Dean checks out the listings in the papers and can't decide if he should take Cas to see _Some Like it Hot _or _North By Northwest_. He ends up taking them to _Sleeping Beauty _since he doubts he and Castiel will be paying much attention anyway; it is rare, after all, for couples to pay attention at drive-in movie theatres.

Because, cheesy though it may be, Dean is taking Cas to a drive-in.

And the word "couple" still sends shivers down his spine.

He picks Castiel up a block away from his house, where Cas is sure his family has no friends. Dean isn't hurt or bothered by the fact that Cas is worried about being seen, because he knows it's not shame that makes him cautious. Dean, of all people, knows about the dangers of a relationship like this.

But they both agreed, that night behind the tree, that it will be worth it.

So Dean assures Cas that "hey, baby, going to a passion pit is the best thing that can happen to boys our age," and even though Cas's blue eyes were dubious, he agrees.

* * *

Castiel has no idea what to expect, but he knows he has no reason to be nervous.

He's with Dean. Anything that happens, happens. And Dean would never hurt him or do anything he wouldn't be comfortable with. And even though Castiel is less than interested in the film Dean is taking him to see—and he knows Dean isn't all that excited about Disney's latest picture, either—something tells him that they won't be watching too much of it.

He just so happens to be right.

He is jittery the whole ride there, and once they finally make it to the drive-in, Dean sees his nerves and rolls the car all the way to the very, very back; far enough away from the screen that the families up front won't see them but not too far to actually see what's going on in the movie.

But he's still nervous, of course.

Dean stops the car, fiddles with the radio until he finds the frequency that the audio will be playing on, stops the car, and sighs. "Look. I can tell you're… uncomfortable."

The movie starts, and the radio crackles to life, making Cas jump. Dean turns it down slightly and turns to him, still waiting for an answer. Castiel takes a deep breath. "I'm not uncomfortable, Dean," he says quietly. "I guess—I don't know. You've obviously done this before, and I obviously haven't, and I know I don't have anything to be nervous about, but—I'm still just so new to this, all of it, and—"

"We don't have to do anything," Dean assures him quickly. "Not if you don't want to. We can just sit here and watch the picture."

"Oh, no, I want to do something, at least," Cas objects. "I'm just—won't we get seen?"

Dean sends him a smirk that makes shivers run down his spine. "Nah. We'll steam up the windows good enough that no one will see."

Something inside of Castiel bubbles and snaps, and before he can overthink it he's got Dean pinned to the driver's side door, mouth hot against his neck, and Dean lets out a quiet, throaty laugh, which makes Cas growl and move back up to kiss him hard enough that he can barely make a single sound.

At some point, Dean praises him for being a natural at all of this, and Cas pauses to blush prettily, at which point Dean can't hold himself back, either, and pulls Cas in for another kiss, or twenty, or forty, or too many to count.

After, when they are lying there just listening to mingling breaths and pulses, Castiel slowly sits up and, with a slim finger, traces out a heart and "D+C" in the steam on the windows. He half-hopes Dean doesn't see, because it's so sentimental and too soon, probably, and when he looks back at the other boy he's expecting Dean to give a bitter laugh and tell Cas not to get any ideas.

But Dean is just looking at him with this warm, overwhelming, unreadable expression in his too-green eyes, and he sits up, too, not saying anything, just wrapping those arms around Cas from behind and pressing one kiss to the nape of his neck as they watch the letters drip down the glass.

They've managed to miss half the movie, and send each other bashful smiles as Dean uses the sleeve of his long-removed shirt to wipe away some of the steam on the front windshield so they can actually see the screen.

But neither of them, of course, can focus.

"I think we need to talk about this," Cas says hoarsely after a lengthy pause, and Dean looks pensively at him.

"I guess."

"What—how—" Cas trails off vaguely, not even having a thought fully formed in his own head. He leans over so he's resting against Dean's shoulder, and Dean hums and gently begins to stroke his hair. "How is this going to work?" Cas whispers.

Dean sighs, and it echoes through Castiel's body. "It'll have to be a secret," he says grudgingly. "Sam knows already, but no one else can. Honestly, I think it won't be too different from just being friends in public. But in private, well… Anyway."

"Anyway," Cas repeats, cheeks slightly flushed. "So… just like friends."

"Yeah," Dean smiles. "Who knows? Maybe it'll help with the tension 'tween the greasers and the Socs."

"Maybe," Cas hums, recklessly leaning up to brush his lips against Dean's jaw. He can't believe he's brave enough to do that, but after all, he's _allowed_.

"But we're exclusive, right?" Dean asks, tone suddenly uncertain. "It's just you and me? Even though we're acting as just-friends in public and playing the occasional game of backseat bingo, there won't be any girls or anything like that?"

"Dean," Cas scolds, "of course not. How could there be any girl for me when you exist?"

Dean flushes and bites his lip with pretty white teeth, turning his eyes back to the screen. "Just wanted to check."

"You have nothing to be worried about," Cas murmurs, allowing for another kiss to his neck. "Yes, we're exclusive."

"Good," Dean says shortly, and something inside of Cas flutters and his mouth just starts saying things of its own accord, despite Cas desperately trying to stay quiet about this.

"Dean?"

Dean looks down at him, one eyebrow raised at the tone of his voice. "Yeah, baby?"

Cas blushes furiously, bites his lip, and looks away. "I—I love you," he whispers, almost hoping Dean won't hear him.

But he hears a quiet intake of breath from Dean, and then he's being turned around again so Dean can seal their lips together once more, returning the sentiment, if not the words.

Castiel is alright with that. Words have never been either of their strong suits, anyway.

And he doesn't really need words, anymore. He has Dean, and Dean's mouth on his own, and the wide back seat of the Chrysler, and goodnight kisses behind trees, and rock and roll music, and, of course, important enough to list twice, he has Dean.

And he plans to keep all of that for a while.

* * *

_Too much heart was always Eve's problem; she'd had a murmur since youth, and even though doctors always assured her that it wasn't anything to worry about, really, she died peacefully in her sleep two years later of quiet, painless heart failure. _

_Dean was devastated, perhaps even more so than when Mary had been killed. But he and Castiel somehow got through it, guiding each other with their misery back to happiness._

_Michael and Lucifer Milton were called to fight in the Vietnam War shortly after their mother's death._

_No one was home, three months later, to accept the telegram that both sons had been killed in action, so no one knew about it for another two weeks._

_When they found out, and the bodies were brought back, Dean went to the funeral and stood in the very corner of the crowd so no one would see him. Castiel noticed his presence there, though, and couldn't even find words for how much he loved him._

_Dean was called to fight, too. Just another few more weeks after the twins' funeral._

_He and Castiel, knowing they were traitors to their country, got into the Chrysler and drove off. A roadtrip, just the two of them, until the war was over. They were young and in love, and they saw the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas and a few Guinness Book of World Records landmarks. _

_Once the war ended, they saw it as safe to return to Lawrence._

_Turns out, Sam and Jess had gotten married in their absence. _

_John was still alive, oddly enough, but Sam had sent him off to a nursing home in Kansas City, because Jess was pregnant and they needed the house to be free from negative energy._

_They welcomed Dean and Cas back with open arms, but they knew they couldn't stay. A month later, the boys had moved up to Maine, where they built themselves a ranch house far enough away from the road that no one would ask questions as to why two grown men were living together with no one else there._

_Dean wanted children. So did Cas._

_But they couldn't have them, of course. Adoption wasn't even considered, because people would ask questions. _

_Honestly, though, they were just happy to have each other._

_They were never legally married, but Dean had two rings made and they did a quick ceremony in their orchard with a Bible and wedding vows. _

_Of course, they had their fights, but more often than not, they were stupidly happy until their last days._

_(Even though Cas made Dean give up smoking and then hid all the liquor in the house.)_

_And so, Soc and greaser, bubblegum and cigarettes, Dean and Cas—they lived happily ever after. _

_THE END._


End file.
